


Angel of Music

by Persephoneshadow



Series: Ghost Song [1]
Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-05
Updated: 2013-10-17
Packaged: 2017-12-25 17:39:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 94,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/955877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Persephoneshadow/pseuds/Persephoneshadow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A complete retelling and re-imagining of the Opera Ghost's love story.</p><p>Part 1 of 3.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Foreword:
> 
> The Phantom of the Opera already existed. He is not, as many may believe, the product of this author’s imagination or the ludicrous fantasy concocted by a love struck composer, filmmaker or reporter. His story has been told again and again for a hundred years, yet it still captivates all who learn it. The Phantom is an icon that excites our imaginations and stirs our hearts. Perhaps it is because we can all see something of ourselves in the story of an outcast, or because we are thrilled by the mystery and beauty of the dark, or perhaps we are helpless to resist a ghost story full of love songs.  
> How can such a well-known story warrant being told again? For the same reason we read the same book until its binding breaks and its pages fall away; the same reason we sing our favorite songs over and over. We are always looking for something new to discover amongst the familiar, searching for a mystery yet to be unmasked. Perhaps you know or remember the Phantom, perhaps not. Many details of his tale may be have changed, lost and added from the one you think you know. In fact, I promise that the story you know is not what you are about to read, but the heart is here. The melody is the same; only the harmony and orchestration have been changed.  
> Yes, the tale of the Opera Ghost already existed, but a new tale is always ready to be told. The search for him haunts us and demands reconsideration, like a persistent specter; that is to say, a Phantom.

No one ever wanted to go below the third cellar, especially after dark. Not that the fact that it was day or night made a difference, down there. It was easy enough for firemen like him to avoid the duty most days; there were no doors to check that far below, and very few gaslights to attend to. Besides, who needed to worry about fires or locks with a lake beneath, and when no one in their right mind would wander the cellars alone? Tonight though, there had been reports from the furnace attendants that they had sighted _something_ through the shadows. Henri had earned this unenviable job by daring to say that they should ignore the nonsense. There were always strange things moving in the dark below the Paris Opera. Everyone knew the stories.

The flare of his match in the cold quiet of the underground did little to drive back the gloom. As he lit his lantern with a shaking hand, he cursed the shadows and his stupid mouth. It was as quiet as a tomb down here, quiet enough that he shivered like a child at the echo of his steps in the dark. He swore softly as he ventured deeper into the maze of silent gray stone and secrets. God forbid he lose his way. No one, even the firemen, really knew the deep cellars. There were maps of course, which he had taken care to examine before making his descent, but they were useless when every corridor and stairwell looked alike and the whole place was drenched in shadows as thick and impenetrable as the stones themselves. 

Henri slowed every time he heard something move beyond the protective circle of lantern light. Even the scratch of a rat’s claws resounded in the stillness. A sound from a few feet ahead made his heart begin to pound. No, nothing to be scared of: simply the drip of water. He relaxed as he came to the small alcove cut in the rock, where a trickle of water poured from a little fountain, down the wall and through a grate to the black below. A petite statue of the Madonna had been placed, there long ago. This had been on the maps, though he had not thought he was so far down. The workers had prayed here when they laid the foundations of the Opera, twenty years before. Ten years after that, the communards and their prisoners had knelt here and prayed for their souls. 

He bent down before the virgin as he drew a candle stub from his pocket and lit it from the weak lantern flame. He could do with some protection from heaven about now. Funny thing, he thought, crossing himself as he rose, for a fireman to leave an open flame unattended on his rounds. It was a consolation to be able to look back and see the flickering of the little light though – the glow of faith pushing back ever so slightly against the dark of the place that seemed so deep and close to hell. Of course you didn’t need to get to hell to find the vengeful dead waiting here, or so they said. Henri continued to follow the corridor, glancing back before he turned a corner to see that the light was still there. It was, though not as far off as he had thought it would be. It was so hard to tell distance down here. He descended a flight of steps and swallowed his fear. He was surely in the fifth cellar now – as deep below the Opera as one could go. 

Each step was harder than the one before, since each echoed with the whisper of stories; stories of the shadows and the ghosts within them, of fools like him who had gone below and were never seen again, of black water and suffering. He glanced over his shoulder once more, wishing he could still see the light at the virgin’s feet, and then felt his heart stop cold when he did. 

The light was still there, exactly as far behind him as before. Henri turned slowly as he watched the little candle flicker and the shadows around it shudder and dance. The shadows continued to move, drawing closer to the light as his heart began to beat again, harder than ever before in his life. The shadow, for it was _one_ shadow that had coalesced out of the blackness, lifted the candle. Henri followed the light with his eyes as it rose, unable to look away, despite his terror. He saw a flash of white in the dark before the flame was extinguished. 

He opened his mouth to scream when he saw the other lights that remained, but no sound came as he stared in horror at the eyes, glittering like yellow stars. The only sound in the darkness was cold laughter. Perhaps he was going mad, because he could only think that the sound was almost as beautiful as it was terrifying. It was only a second’s thought though. Soon the crash of his footsteps fleeing filled the dark as he ran. 

The shadow was too fast though. In a heartbeat, it had Henri in its frozen grasp, laughing, as the lantern crashed to the ground. The flame flared before guttering into nothing and he saw the mask of white around those terrible eyes again, just for that one second, but it was enough. Enough to know that he would never venture to the darkness again, if God would help him to escape alive. The sound of laughter echoed in Henri’s ears as the world washed away and the light in the ghost’s eyes faded into black.


	2. Shadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christine Daae arrives at the Paris Opera.

She tried not to make wishes any more, but if she had one at that moment, it would be for the rain to stop. Someone in another life had told her that all the best stories started in the rain. It had something to do with fate, as if a storm was the gods’ way of taking notice and setting the stage. In that other life she had believed absolutely in the magic of the rain and in fantasies like fate. Today though, as the slate skies continued to pour down onto the streets of Paris, she chose not to believe anything. The rain was just rain, and this was not the beginning of her story. 

Christine Daaé was weary from walking in the wet, late-October cold. Her feet ached in her thin, sodden shoes and every inch of her skin was clammy and frozen beneath her clothes. As she turned at last onto the Avenue de l’Opera, however, there was a brief moment, like the flare of a match in the dark, where the cold and rain did not matter. It had been a long journey so far. The gare du nord train station was miles from the Opera, and she had found herself terribly lost several times along the way in the orderly streets filled with identical cream-colored buildings. Everyone had been able to point in the right direction though. Even in 1880, only five years after opening, the Opera Garnier was the largest, grandest and most famous theater in all of Europe. After hours in the city, and days before that on coaches and trains, and years of dreams, she had finally found it. She stood in the middle of the Place de L’Opera, gazing in awe at the magnificent façade of the National Academy of Music. It looked like something halfway between train station and a pagan temple. Christine was not sure if she thought it beautiful or disappointing, or perhaps both.

The huge building was constructed of stone that must have been white when the edifice was new, but had already been stained gray by the dirt and smoke and soot of the largest city in the world. A line of arches, with dour statues of muses standing guard in between, led to the front doors. The level above was taken up by a huge loggia, adorned with imposing Greek columns and balconies that shielded the outdoor portion of the nobles’ salons. Above that were layers of crests and cherubim, interspersed with busts and names of the great and not-so-great composers. Finally the roof, lined with golden masks of comedy and tragedy, flanked by angels and great winged horses and crowned by the immense, green copper dome of the auditorium. Even above that, barely visible from where Christine stood – craning her stiff neck to take in the sight – was the god Apollo, raising his golden lyre to the gray sky. 

It was so strange to finally see it, solid and real and enormous, squatting like a great, baroque toad at the end of its avenue. There were days when Christine thought of her spirit like a garden. It had been abandoned long ago and now grew thin and wild, but hope sprang up like a weed, no matter what she did to stop it. Even now, soaked to the skin and filthy from days of traveling, wearing her the only dress she had been able to afford keeping, and clutching the last of her possessions in a tattered bag, she could not help it.

A small thrill went through her as she approached the entrance, through a wrought iron gate tipped with gold. Only one door was open and a small, sniffling man sat at a podium beside it. Christine’s excitement faded as quickly as it had flared as the man glared at her. 

“What do you want?” the attendant sneered. 

“I…was looking for…I mean, I thought there might be…” Christine choked on the frightened, shaking sound of her voice. She was taller than him, but felt horribly small under his revolted gaze.

“What?” the man barked.

“Work. Here, I mean.” She bit her lip. At least blushing made her a bit warmer.

“ _You_ want to work here?” he laughed. “Doing what? Cleaning out the stables?” 

Christine’s heart fell a bit more, but she finally caught the doorman’s eyes. They were beady and dark; a perfect, rat-like match to his pointed nose and crooked teeth.

“I sing,” Christine told him firmly. The man laughed again, high and cruel. “Are they not looking for choristers? Even just people to fill the stage?” 

“Even if they were, they would not want someone like you.” Christine looked down in shame at her dirty hands and wet, shabby clothes. “Like I said, try the stables,” the man sniggered and waved her off. “Now get out of here or I will call a gendarme.”

Christine hurried away, determined to at least spare herself the indignity of being removed by force. A different girl would have started to cry, a girl who had been foolish enough to really hope, but that was not her. Disappointment was so familiar that it was comforting. The joke about the stables had probably been the worst, she thought to herself, adjusting her grip on her soggy shawl. Even the enormous Paris Opera didn’t have stables. 

Christine followed the perimeter of the massive building, its stone slick and dark in the deluge. At the least she might find a dry place to wait out the rain. She sighed again at the very thought. What would she do when the storm passed? Try again? What did she plan on doing when they turned her away a second time or a third? Where else could she possibly go in the sprawling, indifferent city full of strangers? 

The rain was falling harder now but the wish that it would stop was almost forgotten. The few others she saw braving the storm scurried from building to building, tucked under umbrellas or papers, trying in vain to outrun the drops. She was the only one just walking. 

~

The rain had made the horses jumpy. Maybe it was the sound and the fresh, clean scent; the way it washed away the soot and the stink and made the city smell less like a city. Perhaps it made them remember all the excitement they were missing waiting to be paraded before the privileged few that could afford admission to the Palais Garnier. Jean Paul certainly hoped it was the rain putting his charges on edge and not anything unnatural. The stable master shivered, wishing his useless assistant would come back soon. No one liked being alone in the Opera. Even in the stables, which were right off the Rue de Scribe, near the back entrance to the stage, the darkness seeped in like a curse. Today it was making Jean Paul just as jumpy as the horses.

“You miss César, don’t you my loves?” Jean Paul murmured as he stroked a whining bay mare. “I know you worry when he’s out and not you.” The graying, rotund man worried about the prized gelding too. César was not out of course. He was missing. Again. “A tenor or patron must have borrowed him for a ride in the city,” Jean Paul assured the mare, who, if anything, was becoming more agitated. “A nice ride in the rain. Before dawn. Without telling me.” He wiped the sweat from his moustache and crossed himself.

Just as Jean Paul told himself for the fourteenth time that morning not to think about such dark things he caught a glimpse of white in the corner of his eye. The Andalusian appeared out of the pitch-black shadows at the rear of the stables where no one sane went, almost glowing in the gloom. 

“César! Damn, I knew he’d taken you!” Jean Paul exclaimed as he ran towards the horse. “Why must you run off like that? Frightening us all and consorting with such terrors!” the stableman huffed as he examined his prize steed. “No more of this! You are my star! Any more excursions with that horrible creature and I’ll have to alert the damn management!” 

_“Now, I’m sure that is an exaggeration.”_

The voice came from all around him, softer than the sound of the rain, terribly beautiful and cold as sharpened steel. Jean Paul could feel the darkness watching him like a prickle of ice down his spine. The gloom seemed to suddenly become a hunter, challenging him to defy the shadows again.

“Oh, yes…exaggeration…” Jean Paul wheezed as he crossed himself once more. He should have known better! What would happen to his family if…

“ _I’m sure you would never mean to insult or question me. Would you, Jean Paul_?” the unearthly voice chided, right in the stable master’s ear. Jean Paul turned, half-expecting to see a face attached to the sound. 

 

But you never saw the Opera Ghost unless he wanted you to. 

“Of course, sir! Didn’t mean a word!” Jean Paul croaked weakly, still spinning like a fat, lethargic top. 

“I certainly hope so,” the ghost hissed. “There would be consequences otherwise.” Wrapped securely in darkness, the ghost savored the increased look of terror on the horse master’s ashen face.

“Oh, sir, you know I would never…It’s just that you keep taking my damn horses without warning!” Jean Paul spat. He finally stood still and focused on a point far from where the shade lurked below a hidden archway. Beneath the edge of his mask, the phantom smiled coldly. He particularly enjoyed toying with Jean Paul; the fool’s alternating fits of defiance, supplication and terror were tremendously amusing.

“Perhaps you would prefer to work elsewhere?” the shadow taunted and his prey began to visibly shake. The phantom laughed pitilessly, just loud enough for Jean Paul to hear. 

“Oh no!” Jean Paul blubbered. “You, sir, keep this work so – so exciting!” 

“I’m not sure I believe you, Jean Paul. I think I need you to prove your…” The ghost waited, letting the question linger, like a blow about to fall.

“Loyalty? Humility? Discretion?” 

Before the phantom could find the perfect word something caught his eye, like the glimmer of a jewel. It was a girl: thin and soaking, shivering in the cover of the stable door with wide, confused eyes. She seemed broken, lost and profoundly out of place; the kind of vagrant that employees like Jean Paul would usually shoo away without a second thought…

“Your good will,” the ghost finished quietly. 

“My good will?” Jean Paul parroted. The girl was looking over his way. She had seen Jean Paul and was probably waiting for him to stop talking to himself. 

“Help the girl standing behind you.” Jean Paul spun, visibly shocked to find he was not alone. He looked fretfully over his shoulder to the shadows, running his hand through his greasy gray hair. “Help her and I may forgive your insolence.” 

“Excuse me, Mademoiselle, can I help you?” Jean Paul called out, his voice shaking and his face still pale. The girl stared at him, her eyes suspicious.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.” Her voice was surprisingly clear and did not carry the accents of the lower classes. She stepped farther into the stables and glanced around.

“Nothing to interrupt, only me and the horses here,” Jean Paul replied, trying to smile nonchalantly and failing. The girl blinked. “They like it when I talk to them.”

“Oh…well, I was hoping that…” She obviously didn’t want to sound like a beggar, which was useless, since she certainly looked like one. “I need work,” she managed with a defeated sigh. Jean Paul puffed up in excitement.

“Of course! Well, I’m sure I can help you.” In the shadows the ghost tried not to laugh as the girl continued to stare at Jean Paul as if his hair was on fire. “Um, what can you do?” 

“I can try to do anything you need,” the girl muttered with more than a hint of desperation. 

As Jean Paul huffed and searched for words, the eyes in the dark surveyed the girl who looked like a vagabond but spoke like an educated woman. 

She appeared to be about twenty, maybe a few years past, but was nothing truly outstanding about her except perhaps that she was taller than normal. From what the ghost could tell, past the grime and the unruly dark hair that escaped from her braid, her features were fine enough. Her eyes were thoughtful and might have been kind if they had not been so sad. She wasn’t ugly, not at all, but something prevented her from being beautiful. It was like looking at a stained glass window at night. The ghost could certainly think of worse subjects for one of his rare acts of charity.

“Well, what are you doing here then if you’ll do anything?” Jean Paul asked at last, concerned in his own tactless way.

“I wanted to be a singer, once. And I’ve dreamed of coming to the Paris Opera for a long time. If I’m not meant to be here, I’m probably not meant to be anywhere,” she  
told him with a shrug. 

“Take her to Louise, you imbecile,” the ghost ordered so only Jean Paul heard. The stable master gulped.

“I-I guess…Yes, they always need more girls to work on the costumes!” Jean Paul exclaimed a bit too enthusiastically. The ghost smiled grimly to himself while the girl looked at Jean Paul with renewed wariness. “Come on and follow me – what was your name?” 

“Christine; Christine Daaé,” she answered quietly, her brows knit in tentative astonishment. Jean Paul nodded and led her out of the stable.

The ghost considered following to watch Jean Paul grovel with the costume mistress, and then likely be thrown out for bringing an urchin in from the streets to sully the shining workshop. No, there were more interesting things to occupy his time. He glided from the stable through his secret door, savoring the cool, quiet of the dark. He wondered boredly whether, if by some miracle Jean Paul could convince Louise to take in the girl, the miserable creature would even survive a day in the Palais Garnier. Another lost, broken thing, swept in from the storm. The Opera was already full of them, including the very ghost that had saved her on a whim. It was easy to pity her, with her dirty clothes and eyes that might have been gentle in another life. Pity was such a cruel trick though. He, charitable monster he was today, had granted the urchin more compassion than he had known in his entire life and it would likely lead her to further heartbreak. It did not matter of course. She knew nothing of suffering. 

The ghost stopped in the dark, perplexed that he was still thinking about the girl. He usually did not give in to his misguided fondness for lost and discarded things for this very reason. Such maudlin thought did not suit him. In a day he would forget her; her sad face, her idiotic dream of being a singer, her name, just as the world had forgotten his name. He remembered though. There were some things even a ghost could not forget.

“Good luck, Christine Daaé, you are on your own now,” the ghost named Erik sighed into the shadows.

~

Christine hurried after the stableman, completely lost and slightly terrified. She wondered to herself if he was a bit mad. Not that she would mind; she was inside, and finally inside the Paris Opera no less. It had been a long while since she had felt anything akin to wonder, but the sentiment edged into her heart as the stable master escorted her through the dim halls of the Opera Garnier. The walls were painted with the lower half a deep maroon and the top a pinkish yellow; the lighter color reflected the smoky gaslight while the deep red seemed to magnify the ever-present shadows. There were forbidding closed doors and echoes of work, footsteps and music everywhere. 

At last they entered a large chamber, in an area either at the level of or below the street, she wasn’t sure. The room glittered with every color Christine had ever dreamed of and even some she hadn’t. They were in a huge wooden gallery, hung to the distant rafters with exquisite tutus, sparkling gowns, dark robes and monsters’ faces. The costume workshop was buzzing with female voices gossiping and laughing, most of which came from a gaggle of workers situated around long tables in the center. In her drab, wet clothes Christine felt like a smudge on a beautiful painting. She shrank when she noticed the imposing, middle-aged woman stalking towards them, her stern face almost as red as her russet hair. 

“What in God’s name, Jean Paul! You will get your muck all over my workroom!” the woman barked. “And what is this?” Christine could feel the Jean Paul shaking beside her.

“Hello, Louise, darling,” Jean Paul sputtered. “I know you’re always looking for more help down here and…” 

“I’ll tell you when I’m looking for help, you stupid horse-hand,” Louise snapped, glaring. “Until then, keep your dirty boots and mongrels out of my shop!” She began to turn away and Christine sighed. At least she could say she had been inside the Opera.

“Louise, please!” Jean Paul called out, oddly urgent. “Darling, think of this as a favor, not for me but in honor of…a departed friend.” Jean Paul pronounced these words with slow insistence, looking directly into Louise’s dark eyes. “Besides, woman, she’s got nothing in the world but some dream of working here. You can’t deny her that,” Jean Paul added with what Christine guessed was the closest he could find to sincerity. 

Christine tried not to squirm as Louise frowned and looked her up and down with a critical eye. 

“Can you sew?” 

“I know the general theory,” Christine answered then bit her tongue as the woman’s eyebrows flew up. “I mean, yes. I think.” Louise did not seem convinced. “I mean, I work hard and I’m willing to learn.”

“Do you scare easy?” Christine squinted, lost again. 

“What?” 

“Are you easily frightened? Are you superstitious?” 

“No, no I don’t…I mean I’m not…” Louise gave Jean Paul a long, meaningful look and finally heaved a sigh.

“Fine, _fine >, you can work here. We’ll set you to launder and mend. I suppose you can’t do too much harm there.” Jean Paul gave a laugh of triumph. “And you can leave.”_

_“Excellent! Thank you, darling Louise, thank you!” Jean Paul gave Christine a grin and a wink then sauntered away, a new spring in his step._

_“Come on then, girl,” Louise grumbled. Christine turned back to the older woman, who was gesturing for her to follow. Louise was tall, full figured, and strong. She walked with sure, deliberate strides as Christine scurried after her to a small side room filled with decidedly unglamorous coats and shawls._

_“Leave your things here. What did you say your name was?”_

_“Christine…”_

_“Good, we don’t have any other Christines.” The overwhelmed new employee dropped her bag and shawl and followed Louise back into the main room. “You can work the laundry for the rest of the afternoon, won’t hurt since you’re already wet and you look like you could use some warming up. Michelle! Take our new girl back to help with the wash. Follow her. Good luck.” Christine was suddenly following a ruby-faced young woman towards a door from which steam was spewing._

_“Dig in,” Michelle ordered cheerfully as they entered. Christine was confronted by a heap of dirty costumes almost as tall as her, piled on one side of the room and a huge copper tub filled with steaming, soapy water on the other. Five other women of varying age and size were moving back and forth from the clothes to the water, their faces shining brightly from the heat and shared laughter. Christine tentatively began to pull garments from a pile. Louise had been right: it was at least nice to be warm again._

_Louise shook her head, seating herself at the main worktable again and taking up the intricate pattern for the gown she had been working on. She did not like surprises like that, nor anything really that would draw too much attention to her workshop or her girls. She could not imagine what Jean Paul had done to warrant such an order. Bringing a girl in from off the street for work was certainly a new punishment. At least it wasn’t as bad as that time a year before, when the managers had refused to present the latest opera by Bizet. The uproar among the musicians had been nothing compared to the chaos wreaked on the costume room._

_“What was that all about?” Elaine asked from beside her through the pins held between her lips._

_“Nothing, just a silly joke of Jean Paul’s,” Louise assured the older, white-haired woman._

_“Looks like you hired the joke,” Elaine grimaced. Louise suppressed a shiver and a frown._

_“Well, we all do what we have to.”_

_The day had passed quickly and no one seemed to mind Christine much at all. In a few hours she felt she had mastered a few of the finer points of laundering the extravagant costumes of ballerinas and divas. She had been given her orders or instructions only when she did something blatantly wrong, so she had not been obligated to speak too much, which was a relief. She always preferred to stay quiet as long as possible, thereby delaying the inevitable moment she would be exposed as “odd” or “curious” or some other polite expression for “strange.”_

_Christine stared down at her hands, which had become horribly shriveled from hours in the water. At least the soap had left them clean, though it also made her skin feel uncomfortably tight. Would this be what her hands would look like when she was old, or dead?_

_“You get used to it,” Michelle consoled from behind her. Christine realized she was the only one still standing beside the great washbasin. Everyone else had begun to file out of the room, never ceasing in their banter, which could have been in a foreign tongue for all Christine understood or cared about it. She wiped her hands on her skirt and followed slowly, making sure she was the last to get her things._

_“You won’t be paid until Monday. Come in early tomorrow and we’ll get you sorted out with the management,” Louise’s voice echoed from behind Christine._

_“Alright.” Being paid was a wonderful idea, waiting for it was not._

_“What’s wrong?” Louise asked, showing a concern that surprised Christine._

_“Nothing. It’s just…”_

_“You have no food, no money, nor a place to stay?”_

_“Yes. ” Christine confirmed, still embarrassed to admit the truth and half-regretting the insane decision to sell everything to make it to Paris._

_“I can’t help you with money, but I can at least spare this, poor thing,” Louise said as she pulled a package from her own bag and handed it to Christine. Christine pushed away the oily brown paper to find a baguette._

_“Thank you, thank you so much,” Christine breathed, staring lovingly at what would be her first meal in two days._

_“As for a place to stay…” Louise glanced around the now empty chamber. “Did you really mean it when you said you didn’t frighten easily?”_

_“I guess. I mean, I don’t go screaming at the sight of a rat or a spider,” Christine replied with a shrug. Louise raised an eyebrow._

_“What about ghosts?”_

_Christine’s mouth twitched into a rueful half-smile with no joy behind it._

_“I am certainly not worried by them,” she answered, tired and confident of the reply._

_“Then I think there might be a place you can sleep. I reckon, given your…circumstances, you’ll be safe. Follow me.” Louise strode out of the costume room with Christine trailing her, entirely confused again._

_Louise led them up two flights of stairs and then down another dark, two-toned hall that seemed suspiciously like all the other poorly lit halls Christine had seen that day, and finally to an unremarkable door. The room Louise opened was illuminated only by the dim orange glow of the gaslights being lit below as the last traces of day faded._

_“This one has a window, so you’ll know when it’s morning; most of the other unused rooms haven’t got that. Stay here for tonight.” Christine looked around the cluttered room: it was full of broken and disassembled musical instruments, mostly old, dusty pianos. “Do not tell anyone you were here and do not leave this room until it is morning, understand?” Louise added with sudden ferocity._

_“Yes, I won’t. I mean, I will. I…I understand.”_

_“Alright, I’ll hopefully see you in the morning.” Louise looked around the room again, giving Christine the odd impression that she expected to find someone else hiding there. “Good night and good luck.”_

_“Thank you,” Christine murmured as the door closed after Louise. The older woman was probably just worried that her new employee would get in trouble, which was understandable. Christine shrugged and headed toward the dim window._

_She slumped tiredly to the ground and nestled herself against the wall below the glass, in a small square of light. The plaster was cool against her forehead as she rested it on the sill and looked up to the sky, the last whispers of twilight falling on her face. She ate her bread very slowly, incredibly grateful for the gift. The act of charity had taken her aback, rather like everything else that had happened since she had walked into that unexpected stable. In one day more people had taken pity on her than in the entire preceding year. She wasn’t even used to people noticing her, let alone helping her to find a job, feeding her or showing her a place to take refuge for the night. Perhaps it was her newly destitute state that inspired such compassion, but what was that business with the stableman and Louise’s “departed friend”?_

_Perhaps her luck was finally turning, she thought as she wrapped up the remaining bread to save for the morning. God, how miserable: that hiding in a storeroom eating second-hand bread was all that passed for luck in her life now. She remembered sickly where she had been days before, final words of derision and dismissal ringing in her ear. The only thing that had kept her from weeping the whole night had been the dream of the Paris Opera. And it was just another dead end. She had come here to sing and was now surer than ever such a thing was impossible. She stared out the window at the stars beyond the clouds. The rain had finally stopped, though she could still smell the faintest hint of it on night air that snuck in._

_She felt a tear run down her face. She tried so hard not to weep, usually, always telling herself she had wept too much already and it never amounted to anything. But alone in the dark, her pain still found her. She breathed in the dusty scent of the room, curling into herself and leaning against the wall. At least being in such a vast building made her feel slightly less alone, as if the darkness was alive and watching her. Maybe she was home, she considered bitterly; here among the instruments that, like her, would never make music again, and all the other shadows._

_He had not meant to find her. In the story he had written for her in his mind, she had been dismissed summarily and thrown back onto the streets. Yet for some reason he had discovered himself near the costumers after all the lights had been put out, when Louise had led the girl into the dark. It was not surprising that the costume mistress had taken pity on the girl. What was startling was that someone of Louise’s sharpness was foolish enough to leave the creature alone in the haunted halls. The door to the storeroom had not creaked and the girl had not seen it open to let in the shadows. Erik had slipped into the thick gloom beyond the light from the window to wait before taking his revenge. Not only was the little vagrant trespassing into his opera, but she had also made him feel human for an instant. Fate had wanted him to find her again so he could make her pay._

_He took a soundless step closer to her, his long black cape sweeping around him, flexing in his thin, pale hands. She was looking up at the sky through the glass, completely unaware of her peril. And she was crying. Erik stopped, alarmed by the sight of the tears shining on her cheeks in the moonlight. She sighed heavily and drew her knees closer to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. She looked incredibly small and broken._

_“I wish you could hear me.”_

_Erik drew back at the sound of her whisper. She could not be talking to him…_

_“I wish you could tell me what to do. I’m here, at the Paris Opera. I know it’s not how we hoped, but I’m here. So what do I do now?”_

_Erik cocked his head curiously. She was speaking to a different ghost it seemed. He watched her take a shaking breath; her eyes still intent on the stars._

_“What do I do now?” she repeated to the shadows and he could see that their silence in return was deafening._

_“I’m so sorry, Papa,” she sighed. “I know I should be stronger, but I am still so lonely without you. It’s nights like these when the emptiness you left behind is the worst, when it fills me up, and there is nothing I can do to stop it, and it just…aches. And I…” she stopped, her eyes slamming shut on her tears._

_Erik almost wished she would continue, but she was shaking her head dejectedly. She already regretted the words that heaven would not answer. She turned away from the window and Erik retreated back, deeper into the shadows and behind a decrepit piano. He heard the sound of her skirts shuffling and another deep sigh as she lay herself down on the floor. It would have been the perfect moment to spring on her, but he no longer had any intent to take his revenge tonight._

_He waited in the dark, as still as a statue, listening to the sound of her breath as it slowed. When she was asleep, he would go and leave her to whatever sad dreams she could manage. He dared to look at her again after a while, confirming that she was no longer awake. He moved quietly through the room, and was perplexed when he found himself standing a foot away from her, at the edge of the light._

_It was not surprising, really, that another lost soul had found their way to the Opera. He had been lost when he came here, wounded and alone when these stones had become his shelter. She had nothing to keep her warm but her tattered shawl and threadbare coat, Erik remarked detachedly as she shivered in her sleep. How little did she care for herself that she hadn’t even bothered to pull a sheet off one of the old pianos? It was almost a reflex when he took the nearest dusty cover and placed it over her. At least she could be warm for tonight._

_The moon through the clouds above and the gaslights below illuminated her sleeping face with an eerie light as Erik knelt beside her. He still was not sure why he had not turned away. No, he shook his head. That was a lie. She had reminded him that he was not the only one in the world who was empty._

_“I know how it feels to ache, Christine Daaé,” he whispered, oddly compelled and moved by the memory of her words and tears. “I know those nights, those moments, when the hollow places inside of you cry out, longing to be filled, like the sky at sunset longs for the stars…” He stared at her, a sudden pain piercing the heart he tried so hard to pretend he did not have._

_Erik stood abruptly, appalled by his weakness. He had become the monster he was so as to never feel such foolish longing ever again. He was the darkness now. There was no use for sympathy or yearning, not for someone like him. And this girl – she was nothing. There was nothing in her worth even a second thought from the Phantom of the Opera. He stalked soundlessly to the door. The damn girl had caused him enough trouble already. That awful aching could be defeated, with enough music and cold and shadows. He had learned how to forget hope before and he would forget her just the same._


	3. Haunted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christine learns the legend of the Opera Ghost.

Christine woke automatically before dawn. The stiffness in her body was worse than usual, but that was to be expected after sleeping the night on a hard floor. At least she was warm. Christine opened her eyes in bewilderment. _Why _was she warm?__

__She pushed herself up from the floor, blinking groggily in the washed-out light. Nothing in the dusty storeroom had changed except that some sort of drop cloth was covering her. When had she moved it? She must have put it there it right before she fell asleep, half-consciously._ _

__She ate what was left of her baguette from the previous night as she watched the room brighten. She chewed the half-stale bread slowly, her mind drifting, hoping to remember when she had pulled the cloth over her or what that voice in her dream had said._ _

__When the food was gone and she was certain she could hear sounds outside, she pulled her shawl around her and took up her bag. She gave the musty white cloth one more glance and could not suppress a chill. She chided herself for the moment of foolish suspicion as she made her way towards the costumer’s through the quiet, dim halls._ _

__~_ _

__Louise heaved a sigh of relief when Christine entered the costume shop, looking a bit lost but otherwise unscathed._ _

__“Well, good morning,” Louise grumbled, striding over to the girl and examining her more closely. Christine looked around uncomfortably._ _

__“Good morning…” the girl murmured._ _

__“How was your night?” Louise asked, trying to sound casual._ _

__“Fine,” Christine replied warily._ _

__“Nothing strange?” Christine blinked and cocked her head._ _

__“No. Not really.”_ _

__Her tone of voice was the exact one Louise’s children had when they lied. Louise grimaced but let it go. The girl had survived a night where grown men had not._ _

__“Well, that’s good to hear,” Louise muttered. Christine glanced to a table piled with tattered costumes in the corner._ _

__“Do I just start sewing?” she inquired hesitantly._ _

__“Oh not just yet, we’ve got to get your name on the books.” Louise hated the long walk up to the administration offices and dealing with the managers’ snobbish clerks. “Are you ready to sign away your soul?” Christine gave a tired shrug._ _

__“I hope they’ll take more than that, my soul isn’t worth much,” she jested half-heartedly, though Louise was quite sure she meant it._ _

__~_ _

__The day so far had not been highly eventful, at least, not compared to the day before, Erik mused as he walked soundlessly beneath the auditorium. His mind had been restless for hours but it was calming to walk in this secret, mechanical corner of the world, where it smelled of wood and rope and oil and shadow. Soon the theater above would be bustling with activity for the afternoon’s rehearsal and it would not be safe for him in the warren of ropes and machines. He would have to find some other distraction. He could return home, perhaps read or compose, but idleness did not appeal to him today. A pity for anyone that crossed him then; a ghost’s boredom always led to unfortunate consequences._ _

__The first sound of a stagehand’s heavy footfall and a wheezing cough echoed through the stillness. It was time to leave. Without a sound Erik pushed up through a trap door onto the empty stage and stole quickly away. He passed the billowing red and black curtains and into the halls, then down to the level of the dressing rooms. It was possible that some other fool arriving too early might catch sight of him here, but they would likely just scream and run, remembering how dangerous it was to walk the halls of the Opera alone._ _

__Erik found himself at the door of dressing room three, by far the largest and most highly desired of all the dressing rooms. For the past four seasons it had been occupied by the undisputed prima donna of the Paris Opera: La Carlotta._ _

__Erik had previously driven off the artists whom he did not feel were worthy to perform in his theater; either through fear or simply by sending a note to the managers that the unlucky amateur should be fired. Yet, despite years of diligent effort, Carlotta remained a fixture on his stage. Her influence, fame, arrogance and the fact that she could be, in her own way, more terrifying and cruel than even the ghost, made her position annoyingly secure._ _

__The lock on her door was useless against an experienced thief like him, Erik thought with a cold smile as he slid into the room. He left the door ajar, allowing a sliver of dim, gold gaslight to penetrate the empty gloom. A box on the diva’s vanity was practically overflowing with jewels, all gaudy and charmless. Erik withdrew a gleaming string of pearls and snapped it with one thin hand. He the pearls fall one by one, spilling from the vanity to the floor. It was not unlikely that some poor soul might trip if they were careless._ _

__He repeated the gesture with two more strings of crystal beads, one dark laugh escaping him. He turned to the costume the woman would wear in a few hours at rehearsal and raised the same cruel hand to the green satin gown. Carlotta did so love her pretty costumes. A tear would be such a terrible inconvenience…_ _

__Erik stopped, his hand hovering in the air. The girl, the one who had spoken to the darkness, she was working in the costume shop at that very moment, likely mending tears like the one he was ready to inflict. His hand fell, unwilling to add to the pathetic creature’s work._ _

__Erik turned back to the vanity. Perhaps there was a bit more he could do there. He reached for a glittering handful of Carlotta’s jewels but he had moved to the wrong place. The light from the door reflected in the vanity mirror and onto his mask. He froze, loathing and panic overcoming him. For a second he saw his hated reflection before he shattered the glass, the jewels in his fist protecting his skin. He was thankful for that. It would never do for a ghost to bleed._ _

__

__Christine’s shoulders ached from hunching over her sewing, and her fingers had been pricked a dozen times. She had learned very quickly that she was a miserable seamstress, even just mending tears._ _

__It wasn’t the worst job though. The shop smelled pleasantly of dust, sweat and heavy cloth. It was quite warm, which Christine enjoyed, and the task was mindless enough that she could let her mind wander. Once in a while her attention returned to the torn peasant’s costume in her hand and the hope she would not bleed on it, or the unending stream of conversation amongst the women who had barely noticed Christine’s presence. She was grateful of this, though not at all surprised._ _

__Christine stopped sewing and sat up straight for the first time that day. _What_ had she just heard? _ _

__“Oh yes, Jacque, you know, the stagehand with the drooping eye, he saw him just yesterday and nearly dropped a set piece on some chorus girls!” a mouse-like girl was replying from beside Christine._ _

__“He could have been lying! The stagehands always use the ghost as an excuse!” an angular, keen-eyed woman across from her replied._ _

__“True, true. Dangerous business if you ask me, using the ghost as a scapegoat. You don’t hear us saying he’s causing every rip and tear, do you?”_ _

__“It might anger him anyway, and no one wants to do that, not if they have sense.” The women sounded a chorus of agreement._ _

__“Excuse me,” Christine interjected. “Did you – you aren’t actually saying that you think there’s a…” Christine trailed off as one by one the women’s faces turned to her with surprise and annoyance._ _

__“You’re new, aren’t you?” a severe, white-haired woman directly across the worktable asked condescendingly._ _

__“Well obviously,” Christine mumbled, looking down at the mess of mending in her hands._ _

__“And you’ve never heard of the phantom?” the nervous girl beside Christine demanded, her blue eyes darting around like a cornered animal’s._ _

__“I’ve heard many stories about the Opera, but not that.” Christine knew that was obvious as well. “You really think the Opera is…haunted?” The prospect was so foolish it was hard to even say aloud, but the faces of her fellow costumers were deadly serious._ _

__“Of course we do. As long as the Opera house has stood, the Phantom has been here,” the older, pinched-looking woman replied. “Everyone knows him. He walks the halls dressed like he’s on his way to a performance, but he always wears a white mask. They say if you see beneath it, you’re never heard from again.”_ _

__“No, no!” the sharper one beside the matron cried. “His mask is black!”_ _

__“No, it’s white,” the small girl beside Christine argued shakily. “You see it floating in  
the dark like the moon. Or his eyes – his eyes burn!”_ _

__“And that stagehand saw his face!”_ _

__The white-haired woman glared at her unruly audience. “The ghost is the soul of the Opera,” the matron declared. “It’s he who really holds the power here, not the managers or the stars. Without his approval everything would be cursed.”_ _

_“Everything is cursed!” the girl to Christine’s left nearly exploded, drawing shocked looks from the others. “All the chaos he causes! You say that people just blame him, but things _happen_! _Awful_ things.” _

__“They can’t be just accidents, we know…”_ _

__“Like when all the lights went out a year ago!”_ _

__“Or when that dreadful new tenor’s costumes and props kept vanishing! He didn’t wait a minute to leave after he found out where they were going.”_ _

__“He didn’t _leave _, the ghost made him disappear! Took him right back to hell with him…” the girl beside Christine whispered in terror, pale as the white dress she was mending._ ___

____“Be quiet, Camille! He might hear you!”_ _ _ _

____“You never know where he could be!”_ _ _ _

____“Just a few days ago Patrice swore she saw him walk straight out of the wall and head for her. She had the good sense to run, but she knew what she saw. And _she_ had been speaking ill of him too.”_ _ _ _

____“Remember the fireman, the one they found unconscious… _What _is wrong with you?”_ _ _ ___

______Christine’s dry laughter faded instantly as she looked at the solemn faces around her. “Are you really serious?” Christine asked, clearing her throat._ _ _ _ _ _

______“Are you mad?” terrified little Camille beside her demanded._ _ _ _ _ _

______“It’s just, I don’t believe in ghosts.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______It was as if she had spoken some obscene blasphemy. The faces around her went pale with amazement and disbelief and Camille stifled a small yelp._ _ _ _ _ _

______“I mean, these stories are amusing, but I just don’t think…”_ _ _ _ _ _

______“It doesn’t matter what you _think_ , girl,” the older woman who had first spoken cut her off. “The ghost is real. As real as you or me.” _ _ _ _ _ _

______Christine sighed. It indeed didn’t matter what she thought. They didn’t care and she had already grown bored with their stories._ _ _ _ _ _

______“You’ll believe, girl, and soon,” the woman added._ _ _ _ _ _

______Christine looked back down at her work. She very much doubted that._ _ _ _ _ _

______ _ _ _ _

______Erik did not visit the costumer’s very often. He usually had much more important and interesting places to be and matters to attend to in the management of his theater. But when he wanted to hide, there was one place concealed within the very wall, hidden behind a rack of costumes that was never empty. There was a crack where he could peek through to the mortal world and from this position he had a rather good view of the newest seamstress._ _ _ _ _ _

______She still looked like an urchin, but she was a bit cleaner, having apparently washed her face and wrangled her thick hair into a bun. She did not talk much, and her mind seemed to drift from her work too often. That was not necessarily a bad thing, since she seemed to be rather wretched as a seamstress. Sometimes she would look as if she was about to join the conversation, but then reconsider. The other costumers did not pay her much attention; in fact some of them seemed to be actively ignoring her._ _ _ _ _ _

______There was something very different about her from the other females of her age. She did not have the predatory, jaded look of a soprano, nor the wide, innocent eyes of a young dancer or ingénue, nor the rough-spun heartiness of the costumers and stagehands. Erik could not, however, find a name for what he did see in her face: something between exhaustion and untended heartbreak._ _ _ _ _ _

______Erik sighed to himself, slowly losing interest. He had come to confirm that whatever he had seen or felt the night before, be it pity or longing, had been an anomaly. She was different yes, and strange, but she was not extraordinary. Despite this, and to his appalled surprise, he was still there, watching, when the workshop began to empty for the night. Soon only Louise and the girl were left._ _ _ _ _ _

______“Did you know that one and a half thousand people work at the Opera, if you count them all up?” Louise expounded as she approached her newest employee, stepping into Erik’s field of vision._ _ _ _ _ _

______Louise made an interesting contrast to the younger girl. Her hair was a much brighter red than the dirty auburn of the girl’s unkempt mass. Though they were both of unusual height, Louise seemed to fill up the room with her full curves, bright face and crisp white blouse and dark skirt, while the other costumer seemed to be hiding, all dirty gray dress and hunched shoulders._ _ _ _ _ _

______“That many?” the girl replied, almost sounding interested._ _ _ _ _ _

______“Indeed,” Louise continued. “And did you know that, unless there is a performance, not a one will stay at the Opera after dark. Even after the performances, when the lights go out, we all leave as fast as we can.” Louise’s words were dark and but the girl’s expression was one of suspicion and weariness._ _ _ _ _ _

______“More ghost stories?” the younger woman scowled, clearly unmoved. Erik’s gaze narrowed. “Is that your way of telling me I can’t stay here again tonight or that if I do, it’s doubtful I’ll be caught?”_ _ _ _ _ _

______“It’s my way of warning you is all. You survived one night unscathed, but only through _his_ good graces I think.” _ _ _ _ _ _

______The girl rolled her eyes as she stood from the worktable, her expression almost a smile but not quite. Erik felt his anger rising at such insolence. Perhaps he had been wrong to spare the little creature._ _ _ _ _ _

______“Everyone talks about this silly ghost like he runs the place,” the mongrel sighed. “I didn’t think you believed it too.” She and Louise were leaving the workshop now. Louise had extinguished the last gaslight and lit an oil lamp, which she carried with her into the hall._ _ _ _ _ _

______Erik moved in the narrow space inside the walls, and continued to listen. He was alarmed that the girl didn’t believe – silly things of her age and gender were usually the first to grow pale and faint at the very mention of him._ _ _ _ _ _

______“It’s not a matter of believing, Christine, the ghost is real and he can be very dangerous.” The girl scoffed a bit in reply._ _ _ _ _ _

______Erik slipped into the darkness of the deserted hall behind them._ _ _ _ _ _

______“I don’t believe in ghosts,” she told Louise plainly, as Erik followed in the shadows, feeling quite insulted._ _ _ _ _ _

______“Suit yourself. If you have nowhere else to go and are stupid enough to stay here at night, there will be no one living here to stop you. But don’t say I didn’t warn you if anything happens.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______Erik saw the girl nod, rather like a child being given a stern lesson who didn’t really intend on behaving._ _ _ _ _ _

______“Now, there’s a performance tomorrow night, which means there will be work after to collect and organize; anyone who does that gets paid more. You’ll be there?” The girl gave tired smirk._ _ _ _ _ _

______“Like you said, I have nowhere else to go.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______“Take this at least,” Louise grimaced and handed the girl a candle and box of matches from her own pocket. “Try not to wander too much,” she warned, turning to leave the younger woman alone in the gloomy corridor. She looked back as she left, motherly concern showing on her face. “Goodnight, Christine. You may not believe in ghosts, but that doesn’t mean they don’t believe in you.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______Louise’s lamp flickered as she departed down the hall. The girl turned in the opposite direction, not lighting her candle, and walked slowly into the dark, directly towards Erik. He stood quiet and still._ _ _ _ _ _

______“No, they don’t,” Erik heard her whisper, as she passed within inches of the ghost who knew how very wrong she was._ _ _ _ _ _

______He followed her, quiet as a night wind. After a while she lit the candle and the yellow light cast a flickering halo around her as she walked the empty halls. Down a staircase, closer to the set workshops now, she continued as Erik stalked after her. She had begun to try doors, rather listlessly._ _ _ _ _ _

______Erik smiled to himself, realizing where she had led him and seeing a perfect chance. He slipped into a familiar passage within the walls and in an instant he was in another room. He opened the door from the inside, making sure it creaked ominously._ _ _ _ _ _

______Erik watched with grim satisfaction as the light from her candle stopped moving in the hall, quivering a bit. Was she reconsidering her refusal to believe in him yet? He was not expecting the light to move closer to the door. He hid behind a large, dusty arbor as the girl entered the room._ _ _ _ _ _

______Quite disappointingly, there was no fear on her face, just weary curiosity. She did not bother with the gaslight, but stared in bewildered wonder through the room – a sizeable but mostly ignored chamber where old set pieces, props and stage furniture were stored. He watched her eyes widen as the dancing light of her candle played among trees, bureaus, plaster statues and suits of tin armor. Bizarre shapes formed from the shadows, like monsters from a child’s dream, hiding the real monster that lurked among them._ _ _ _ _ _

______The girl gave a hollow laugh and Erik followed her gaze to the decrepit, baroque prop bed in the center of the clutter. He rolled his eyes angrily at the extent of his failure. He had meant to teach her some respect and instead had shown her the best possible place to spend another night trespassing in his Opera. Erik watched as the girl placed her candle on a _papier-mâché_ tree stump beside the bed and sat down, relief visible in her face. _ _ _ _ _ _

______She peeled off her ratty shawl and coat, and pulled a stale heel of bread from the pocket of her dress. She savored the food slowly but without any visible pleasure, lost in thought. It would have been a perfect moment to startle her, but he did not move. When she finished, she sighed and yawned, twisting her long, thin neck and unbuttoning the first few buttons on her high-collared dress. At least she was not crying tonight._ _ _ _ _ _

______She remained silent as she gazed intently at the flame of her candle, which burned still and steady. At last she opened her tattered bag and drew out a book, as ragged and dirty as everything else she owned. She hunched near the light and began to read. Erik could tell she had read it before, as her face warmed a bit, though not much, as she became lost in the words._ _ _ _ _ _

______He shook his head, disgusted with his hesitancy. This entire escapade had been a terrible waste of time. He sighed, heavily enough to make the placid flame of her candle flicker._ _ _ _ _ _

______The girl looked up and he held his breath. Had she heard him? Her eyes searched the thick shadows, alert and anxious. _Yes_ , he thought, _you heard and you saw it. You can feel it. You can feel me. I know it…__ _ _ _ _ _

______“I…” she began, her eyes wide and her cheeks pale. “I do not believe in ghosts.” The statement was firm and her face cold._ _ _ _ _ _

______Erik sneered, but remained motionless as she closed her book and lay down on the bed, still watching the flame until her eyes fell shut. He had learned something new about the girl tonight, he thought, as he waited to be sure she was asleep. She was as stubborn as she was strange. It was not that she did not believe; it was that, even given the chance, she did not want to._ _ _ _ _ _

______“Perhaps, my little skeptic, I will have to make you believe,” he murmured as he moved closer to her. It would not be tonight; he would let her rest and pretend she was safe._ _ _ _ _ _

______It would be an amusing challenge. When he finally saw her fear, when he could drink it in like wine, it would be a wonderful reward. Deftly, he extinguished the candle beside her and turned back to the shadows._ _ _ _ _ _

______~_ _ _ _ _ _

______Christine sat in the stairwell, her stomach grumbling. Everyone else had either left for home or gone off to eat before the evening performance. She had been too embarrassed to beg for stale bread for a second day, and had chosen instead to ignore her empty stomach in privacy._ _ _ _ _ _

______She stared at the plaster on the walls. It would be white in daylight, she guessed, but here it took on the warm, orange glow of the gaslight. There was a small crack running down a few inches from the iron fixture. How quickly things began to fall apart. Perhaps she would try to turn on the gaslight in the prop room tonight, if she could find the damn place again._ _ _ _ _ _

______She had opened her eyes that morning to pitch black. She had thought her candle had burnt out in the night until she struck a match and found it exactly as she had left it when she fell asleep. There had to be a draft in the room, though she could not say from where. The bed, even with its thin approximation of a real mattress, had been worth it though._ _ _ _ _ _

______Despite the reasonable explanation for the candle, she had thought of it all day. Perhaps it had been the ridiculous and unending chatter about “the ghost.” She had tried to ignore the stories, and the stares, but with little success. The sound of steps and a sigh brought her back to the present._ _ _ _ _ _

______“Were you planning on lurking here ’til after the performance was over or were you going to go up?” Louise demanded, her hands on her hips. Christine stood quickly, stumbling over herself a bit._ _ _ _ _ _

______“I could go listen?”_ _ _ _ _ _

______“As long as you find your way back after, go ahead,” Louise replied gruffly. “You’re no good to anyone sulking here.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______Christine started up the stairs, barely pausing to consider that she didn’t know where the stage was. A few turns and she saw people in costume at a junction and followed them. They didn’t notice her. At last she heard the sounds of the orchestra tuning from above, one pitch flowering into dozens of echoes and variations. It sent a terrible thrill through her that also filled her with aching regret. More performers passed by on their way up to the stage, sweeping past her without a thought._ _ _ _ _ _

______They were presenting _Faust _, Christine realized when she reached the level of the stage, as Gounod’s marvelous, dark music welled up from the unseen orchestra.___ _ _ _ _ _

________Everything, from the music to the sights was magnificent. The stage itself was huge, with sets and backdrops arranged in layers to give the illusion of even greater space. There were ropes and winches and pulleys and sandbags everywhere, all manned by burly stagehands in dirty brown shirts and dark trousers. Christine followed the miles of rope up with her eyes, to where it disappeared into the flies. The heaven of ropes and catwalk above was alive with movement and the sheer height and expanse of it made her mouth fall open in admiration._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________Someone pushed past Christine – she guessed it was a chorus member by their peasant’s dress. The chorus was assembling in the wings to sing the idyllic air that would inspire Faust’s bargain with Mephistopheles._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________Christine backed away from the crowd, ducking behind set pieces and avoiding more chorus members. She did not want to be reprimanded for being where she so very obviously did not belong. She had been in theaters her whole life, though it had been years since she had been this close to a proper performance, but the atmosphere was still so marvelously familiar: The chaos in the wings, the hushed conversations, the light stealing through from beyond. She wondered if it was true that the chandelier was never extinguished during performances. The chorus was singing now, out of her sight and that of the audience._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________Christine sank down, leaning against a huge knot of ropes. She could listen here. It was more secluded so far back and she expected the shadows would seem too dangerous for the superstitious Opera employees. It was still hard to relax and shake the feeling she would be discovered and be ejected, even the feeling that she was being watched disapprovingly at that very moment._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________Faust was reciting his invocation to darkness on the stage though, and she closed her eyes to listen, imagining the scene. There was distant, muffled blast and the scent of smoke filled the air.  
“I am here!” the devil sang and Christine shivered at the sound._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________ _ _ _ _ _ _

________Erik watched from the deep shadows, furious that the bloody girl had found her way into yet another corner of his Opera. He slunk a bit closer, considering whether disturbing one of the set pieces beside her would cause too much commotion to be worth the effort._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________Each time he had thought of her that day, his failure to exact any meaningful revenge had smarted like an untended wound. He gripped the edge of the painted hill he hid behind, bracing for the commotion that would ensue as everyone backstage tried to keep the audience unaware of the chaos. He was hungry for her fear though._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________He stopped as the voices from the stage rose to a crescendo and the girl leaned back._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________Something had changed in her wan face. When he had seen her before, she had been like a starless sky, but as she listened there was the faintest glimmer of light. She mouthed the words as the duet reached its climax, surprising him further. She _knew_ this opera. What had she said before? She wanted to be a singer. She had come to his opera house for this, to lose herself in the unquestioning beauty of music. And that, like her loneliness, he could understand. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________As voices filtered though the darkness, Erik watched the girl _listen _. It was the most active thing he had ever seen her do. Her face expressed and perceived every nuance of the music. Her eyes stayed closed as he strayed closer to her to better savor the play of her features. It was ridiculous to find himself watching her _again_. Yet he could not move himself from the shadows until the act ended and the girl scurried away to avoid discovery. ___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________He shook off the strangeness of it as he too ducked away to his secret paths. Not soon enough, he was safe in his box, listening to the bored chatter of the audience. He banished the image of the girl’s face from his mind as the curtain rose on Act II. It was harder to hear from here actually, since the crowd was bored tonight and continued to murmur even when the music began._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________He took up the program his box keeper had so kindly provided, absently leafing through the notes and finding himself as distracted as the audience below. There were patrons in their satin vests and black coats, half of them looking as bored as Erik felt. The well-coifed ladies at their sides fanned themselves and glanced about, checking who else had come tonight and with whom._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________In the premier box across the theater, the managers were engaged in a deep discussion with a portly man carrying a small plate of cakes. Debienne’s thin black hair and curled moustache looked particularly painted on tonight, and rectangular, graying Poligny barely seemed awake. Erik looked to the higher boxes, trying to find a single face that betrayed as much passion for the music as hers had. It was a futile task. He wasn’t close enough to anyone to really see and he didn’t care what the audience thought or felt. Nor did he care what that girl was hearing, he reminded himself._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Christine moved for a third time when the stagehands rushed on as the curtain closed to assemble Marguerite’s garden. She watched them move the walls of the house in pieces and hoist down the backdrop of a lovely sunset. She could not lurk at the back of the stage for this act. Singers would be moving there for their entrances through the false façade or to reach the rather unstable looking balcony._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________She chose a new hiding place deep in the wings, among the ropes and dark curtains. It was colder here, farther from the lights of the stage. Strangely though, she did not feel as alone as she had during the second act. The curious feeling of being watched from the first act had returned. The orchestra rose and Sibel’s lilting love song began. She closed her eyes and listened, singing along without making a sound._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Erik wondered how a person could look so content and yet so sad at the same time. Why couldn’t this little vagabond sing if she wanted it so much?_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________He scowled as he watched her from the dark behind the ropes. This was at least more enjoyable than listening to Carlotta ornament and draw out the Ballad of the King of Thule until it was unrecognizable. He smiled slightly when the diva began to sing and the girl visibly grimaced. Well, at least the young lady had taste._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________~_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“How was it?” Louise asked as Christine peeked back into the bustling costume room._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________The girl looked more distracted than usual, which was saying a great deal._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Not half bad,” the younger girl shrugged. Louise raised an eyebrow._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Not _half bad_. The greatest opera in Europe they call this, and the laundress thinks it’s not half bad!” _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Well, I did not care for the soprano,” Christine muttered._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“That’s smart of you.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Louise looked up and scowled in the direction of the comment. The young dresser’s sleek black hair was pulled up in a demure bun, but her dark eyes were sparkling with unholy mischief._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“This one needs special work,” Julianne continued smoothly, handing Louise a badly torn gown._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“How did she split the whole seam? She just had a fitting two weeks ago!” Louise exclaimed as she pushed an armful of peasant blouses into the Christine’s hands. “See which of those are torn and which just need to be washed,” she instructed without missing a beat._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“I think she’ll be splitting more very soon,” Julianne grinned with a bit too much satisfaction. “And needing an entire new set of very small costumes in about 5 months.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Oh, for heaven sakes, these idiot girls!” Louise exclaimed. “It’s like working in a brothel!”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Oh, mother, don’t be absurd,” Julianne chided. “Brothels pay better.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Louise gave her daughter another glare. She thanked God each day her girl was smart enough to stay away from such liaisons._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Who sang Faust?” Christine asked, reminding Louise she was still there._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Carlos Fontana,” Julianne replied, looking the new employee over curiously. “He’s very famous, to hear him tell it. Haven’t you heard of him?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“No. And Marguerite?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“That was Carlotta Zambelli, _La Carlotta_ to us peasants,” Louise answered, spitting out the foreign name like rotten food. “Why don’t you get a program if you’re so interested?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“I don’t know where to find one,” Christine shrugged and hefted another clutch of shirts over to a worktable. Julianne leaned over curiously._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Her name is Christine,” Louise answered before her daughter could speak. “And yes, she’s the one.” Julianne glanced at the girl again, quite interested._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“The ghost must like her, if she’s still around,” she murmured._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Or he’s waiting for something,” Louise countered with a shudder. “She doesn’t even believe in him yet.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“That won’t last long,” Julianne smirked._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________~_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Christine pulled her shawl closer around her shoulders, lifting her candle a bit higher. The kitchens had not been hard to find during the day, but everything was different in the dark. Walking through the quiet, marble halls of the grander sections of the Opera reminded of sneaking into a mausoleum. She was too hungry to care though. Her reflection flickered in the glass doors and caught her by surprise. She held her breath as she tried the handle and sighed in relief when it moved._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________She pushed the door open and watched the golden light creep through the empty room. There had to be something in the cupboards or left out…Christine’s eyes fell on a half full tray of tarts and she almost laughed._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________She set the candle down and began to eat, wondering absently if anyone would notice. They would probably blame their silly ghost. She set into a second tart, glad it was not too stale yet and savoring the sour-sweet lemon filling. It was her best meal in a week. She paused in mid-bite, a strange object beside the food catching her eye. She leaned closer, moving her candle. Of all things, it was a program from the evening’s performance._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“How did you get here?” Christine murmured with a weak approximation of a smile. She picked up the program, testing the feel of the engraved paper beneath her fingers. If she could find the prop room again tonight, she would count this as her luckiest day yet._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Erik turned away from the quivering light beyond the kitchen doors. The effort of telling himself he would wait until later to take his revenge on the girl was becoming tiresome. The dim light from the stars and the city through the skylight cast the grand foyer in shades of black and blue and pale white. He trailed his long fingers over the marble balustrades and bronze ornaments, each cool surface familiar and soothing beneath his hands. Hundreds of people had crowded these halls only hours before, taking in the opulence and intricacy, but few would ever know the place was just as lovely when all the lights were extinguished._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Erik spun at the sound of footsteps from below. It was not the girl - these footfalls were heavy and guileless. He swept noiselessly down the stairs, following the sounds towards the rotunda, his long opera cape billowing around him. The intruder was carrying a lantern and breathing very loudly. Erik passed the beautiful fountain beneath the grand staircase and ducked behind a column._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________The man was dressed in heavy woolen garments and a thick coat and cap: a fireman very late on his rounds. Erik could see the glimmer of sweat on the man’s brow, though it was not warm at all. He was frightened, as he should be. The hand holding his lantern was shaking as his bleary eyes darted about._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________The far off sound of the kitchen doors banging shut made the man jump and spin. He delved into his pocket and pulled out a dented silver flask. The fireman fumbled with the stopper and Erik laughed quietly. The look of terror on the man’s face as the flask clattered to the ground was quite marvelous._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Erik darted between the columns, moving fast enough that the man would only see a shadow._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Who is there?” the fireman demanded weakly. Erik laughed again, coming behind the man. “Show yourself, demon!”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“A demon, am I?” Erik asked casually and the man whirled around to face the Opera Ghost._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________The fireman’s mouth fell open, the first whispers of a scream squeaking out as the lantern dropped from his hands._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Now that was careless, you could start a fire,” Erik chided as the man stumbled back, gasping._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Please, God, no…” the man blubbered, staggering backward. Erik advanced, the fading light of the lantern behind him now. The man would only see a shadow floating towards him, with burning eyes._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“You should run now, Monsieur, before I show you exactly what sort of demon I can be.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________The fireman turned, racing away without looking back. Erik returned to the dropped lantern. Careful to keep his back to the mirrors that lined the great circular chamber, he retrieved the light and extinguished it._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________~_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Christine was the last one to get her envelope of Franc notes and was pleasantly surprised at the amount. She had expected payday to be a more cheerful event, but the majority of the costumers seemed more intent on some new, dark gossip than on their salaries._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Thank you, Louise,” Christine murmured sincerely, closing the envelope and looking back up at the imposing woman. “This is too generous.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Don’t thank me,” Louise shot back, glancing around the crowded workshop from where she stood beside a large rack of costumes. “You were here too last night, weren’t you?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“What?” Christine furrowed her brow. She felt as if she was continuing a conversation she did not remember starting. It was becoming a rather common feeling at the Opera, very much like that odd sensation someone was watching her._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Do you listen to nothing? Another fireman had an…encounter last night,” Louise explained in clear frustration. “He was alone after dark and he saw the ghost. You on the other hand have spent three nights here alone and seen nothing?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“There is nothing to see,” Christine countered flatly._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Christine, that fireman – a brave, grown man – says he will never come back here, do you think he’s making up stories?” Louise pressed._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“I have no idea,” Christine sighed. “All I know is that ghosts do not exist.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“How can you say that?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Christine’s looked down at her dirty, pin pricked hands, then up at Louise. Grief weighed on her so heavily and so suddenly that she could barely breathe._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“All my life, my father told me stories: fairytales and legends and ghost stories,” Christine said, her voice cold and tired. “But his best stories were about angels. He would tell me about the angels of music that would bless and guide musicians. He said that when he was in heaven, he would send an angel of music to me, to protect me and teach me, to help me.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Christine looked back at the floor, the pity in Louise’s face too much for her to bear. “Well, my father has been dead for over three years, and look where I am. I have never seen an angel, or a ghost, or a miracle. I haven’t seen or heard or felt a thing. So that’s why I won’t believe, Louise, because I know it’s all lies. I refuse to believe…in anything.” Christine shook her head and turned away._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Wait, Christine!” Louise exclaimed as Christine headed into the yellow and red hall, though it was so dark, she could barely see the color. Christine turned to face Louise, who remained safe in the light from the workshop._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Please, don’t try and convince me. If my lack of faith so offends this bloody ghost, then let him tell me so himself.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Christine turned down the gloomy hall, wanting nothing more than to find a quiet place to weep. She heard Louise following behind her and spun, ready to snap at her. There was no concern in the older woman’s face though, only absolute horror. Christine grew cold in the second it took her to realize that Louise was not looking at her. Instead, the costume mistress was staring at something behind Christine that she herself could not see. Christine could feel it though: the same sense of being watched that pervaded the Opera, only a hundred times stronger. Christine turned around slowly.  
The Phantom himself stood before her, exactly as the stories had said, from the black opera cape to the white mask, his glowing eyes ablaze with unnamable menace. Christine was peripherally aware of Louise swearing and running away but all she could comprehend was the figure before her. He seemed to draw closer without making a sound, tall, cold and real as the darkness. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Christine could not breathe. She could not think. All she could do was stare, her heart beating so hard it hurt. His eyes locked with hers, searing into her soul. The danger and hate seemed to fade into something deeper, and infinitely sadder as she stared. Past the glow, those eyes were a deep blue, like the sea, and Christine was drowning in them. Tears stung her own eyes as she stared. She took a deep, shaking breath; something inside her breaking, while something else surged back to life._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Christine!” Louise yelled from miles away._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Christine whipped around. Remembering the world again, she turned back to the ghost, only to find him gone. She felt like she was about to weep as everything came into focus. Louise pulled her back to the costume room. It was full of the buzz of voices and curious eyes. People were swarming around her and she could hardly remember how to breathe. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except his eyes._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Erik panted as he pressed himself against the wall of his hiding place, barely able to stand and desperate to catch another glimpse of Christine. Curious women surrounded her and she was as breathless as he was._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“My God girl, you look like you…”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Saw a ghost?” Christine finished for the random voice. Everyone grew still._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“She’s telling the truth. I saw him too,” Louise ventured from beside her, terror coloring her usually robust voice. “But she had to stay staring for God knows how long!”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“What was it like?” a young voice whispered in horror. The whole room held its breath as they waited for Christine to begin, even Erik, as he tried not to think of her eyes._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________It had seemed like such a simple thing, to let her see him after she such a blatant challenge, but he had not been prepared for her reaction. She had not screamed or run; she had come alive. How had he never seen her eyes before, not seen that they were the colors of a forest? How had he not known that they were so beautiful? He had wanted to turn away but her eyes would not stop staring even when they filled with tears. Erik shook the image from his mind, even as he strained to hear her quiet voice._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“It…he was just like the stories. He was tall, thin, all in black…” Christine related distantly. “And he was wearing a mask.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Weren’t you scared?” someone gasped._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“At first I was startled, and then I saw his eyes…” Erik’s head snapped up._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Did they burn and glow?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Yes, like they had their own light. At first they were angry, terrifying really,” Christine explained, but without the slightest hint of terror in her voice. “Then something changed, and they were just so…lonely. I’ve never seen anything so sad.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Murmuring rose in response._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“There was so much pain, so much emptiness. I felt…” No one ventured to end her sentence, though the one person she didn’t know was listening waited in agony for her to finish. “I felt so sorry for him.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Erik sprang back from the crack in the wall like it was on fire. _What had she said?_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“You felt…sorry for him?” a voice parroted._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________“Yes. To bear that sort of pain, even in death, it must be awful,” Christine breathed, but everyone was already gossiping again and her moment was over._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________Erik could feel them drawing back from the girl, repulsed, for who in their right mind would pity a thing like him. Erik leaned against the wall in the darkness. Faith and her fear was all anyone ever gave him. She was no different, Erik told himself with a surprising effort. She would not pity him if she ever _really _saw him. This stupid game was over and if he ever encountered her again he would show her how foolish her sympathy was.___ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________Erik straightened himself and stalked away from the costumers’ hub, into the secret, dark places of the Opera and as far as possible from the damned light in that girl’s eyes._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“Are you even listening?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________Christine looked up from the hook that held her coat and shawl, taking a moment to really see the older woman. Louise had obviously been saying something important._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“No, my apologies,” she muttered._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“Well try for once. Everyone knows how dangerous the ghost can be,” she whispered, taking Christine gently by the arm and drawing her closer. “But some people are on his good side and, God knows why, but you seem to be one of them. Make sure you stay there.” Louise ordered and let Christine go. “He doesn’t like it when people are ungrateful.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“I understand, Louise,” Christine replied, following Louise out._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________“ _Be careful_.” _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

____________Christine nodded, and watched the older woman disappear down the hall. Christine did understand. She understood the legends and stories and fear. She knew now why she never felt alone in the dark._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _


	4. A Prayer in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christine finds her angel.

Erik stole into the darkened auditorium. He gazed about the empty theater, pushing his lank hair carefully out of his eyes and realizing for the first time he had forgotten his hat in his distraction. For hours he had been warring with himself, torn between swearing to forget the girl and planning his revenge on her. The utter quiet of the place was a welcome relief.

A single lamp burned in a wrought iron cage on the stage – they called it a ghost light – and it cast the great chamber in a hundred shades of shadow. The golden gilding on the boxes and statues shone ever so dimly, and the red velvet of the seats and curtains looked almost black. High above, the massive chandelier cast no illumination, save for a few sparkling crystals reflecting the light on the stage below.

A noise broke through the stillness. Footsteps. Erik hid himself in the shadows of the orchestra pit, alarmed that anyone would be on stage at this dark and dangerous hour. Whoever it was, they would never dare to intrude upon his nighttime kingdom again. He steeled himself as the steps grew closer, preparing to strike…and swore in bewildered consternation under his breath. It was her. Of all the places he could have been, fate had led him to this ridiculous, astonishing girl _again_.

Erik watched dumbstruck as Christine came to the very center of the immense stage and set her candle down. Her hands were shaking and she looked more nervous and scared than he had ever seen her. She knelt, as if to pray and stared into the dark.

“I know you can hear me, ghost.”

Erik tensed at the tremulous, extraordinary words.

“I don’t know how, but I can feel it. And there is something I want to say to you: thank you.” Erik recoiled deeper into the gloom. “You…heard me. You made me believe, even after I tried not to for so long. So, thank you.”

He looked away, the strangeness of the sentiment twisting in his brain. Pity and gratitude in one day was too much.

“I believe, I can’t deny that now. So there is someone else I must speak to.” Erik’s eyes flew back to her. Was she holding back tears? She looked up, towards the chandelier; no, towards heaven.

“Father…I promised you that I would sing on the stage of the Paris Opera one day. And you promised me that you would send me an angel guide me, so that I could.” She bit her lip, a few tears escaping down her cheek. Erik felt as if he was intruding on something terribly intimate, but he could not turn away.

“I’m so sorry, Papa. I don’t know what I did to make you leave me alone. And I’m sorry I’ve failed. I know this isn’t the way you would have wanted it, but it’s all I can do. I’ll keep my promise. You always loved Mozart.”

Erik tilted his head as Christine rose, closed her eyes and took a quavering breath before the first soft notes of Susanna’s garden aria from _The Marriage of Figaro_ quivered unsteadily from her lips.

“ _It is at last the moment_.”

Erik turned away. He already knew too much about this girl’s heartbreaking dreams. He didn’t want to hear the voice that was just as pathetic and miserable.

“ _When I can rejoice without care_ …”

He stopped. Something in the thin, shaking sound was changing, growing in strength and confidence.

“ _In the arms of my beloved_.” Her voice was not terrible, far from it. “ _Timid scruples, leave my heart_ …” she sang. Erik turned back slowly to watch her, fascinated and fighting back mounting amazement as the recitative continued. Note by note, the sound transformed, growing rich with longing and astounding light. “ _And the sky responds! How the night furthers my deceptions_ …”

Erik gave in. Her voice was like her eyes: completely unexpected and utterly beautiful.

“ _Please come, do not tarry, oh beautiful joy_.” He relaxed into wonder as she began the aria. Not only was her voice beautiful – shining and warm, like a summer sky full of stars – he could hear her heart as she sang. “ _Come to where love calls for your delight_.” Behind Mozart’s idyllic melody was such yearning, such beautiful loneliness.

The song was a call to another world, begging heaven to hear her. He tried to focus on the many glaring technical deficiencies, but the potential and raw beauty of her voice made them secondary. Her song swept him up in ecstasy even as her eyes opened, gleaming with tears.

“ _Come, come, my love_ …” The phrase grew slowly, flowing, ardent and full of longing that took his breath away. He had never heard a voice with such raw potential or true feeling in his theater. “ _Come, come…and I will see your brow crowned with roses_.” The perfect, flowering notes filled Erik with an aching as strong as the one he heard in her voice. He had to do something. How could he let her prayer go unanswered when she had looked at him and pitied him? How could he dream of forgetting her? “ _Crowned with rose_ s.”

The last notes faded into silence and Christine looked down, shivering, as tears streamed down her face. Strangely, it was the first time Erik had ever seen that it was not just her eyes that were beautiful.

“Forgive me, Papa, please forgive me,” she whispered, again looking to heaven. “I wish I could make our dreams come true, but I can’t, I just can’t. Not alone.” She gave a defeated sigh as the darkness answered with silence, as it always would, unless…

Erik shook his head. She was singing again, her voice weak and sad once more, just a snippet of another phrase from _Figaro_ :

“ _Perhaps you will pardon another_.”

Erik knew it well: it was the countess’s line, and if there had been a chorus on stage, they would be singing in subdued but lively awe at the sight of the noble lady, suddenly arriving to confront her husband’s infidelity. Then the count would come forward and reply in a perfect melody of supplication, begging for her mercy…

“ _Countess, forgive me_ …”

Erik didn’t even realize he was singing until he saw Christine gasp, her eyes widening the same way they had hours ago in the deserted hall. Her entire body began to shake, shrinking into itself in shock as his voice encircled her, as plaintive and beautiful as he could will it to be.

“ _Forgive me, forgive me_ ,” he sang and the notes lingered in the dark air like smoke. “Go on, Christine, finish it,” Erik encouraged gently, suddenly desperate to hear her voice again. “Sing for me.”

“ _I am kinder than you_ ,” Christine sang back, her voice trembling, yet as the as the phrase grew into an exquisite melody of forgiveness, the sound blossomed, echoing with a wonder and beauty Erik hardly believed possible. “I will say yes,” she sang like a promise and a prayer at the same time. “I will say yes.”

“ _Ah, all are happy, and ever shall be_.” Erik joined her in the final chorus. Their voices joined together perfectly, effortlessly, and Erik watched Christine’s eyes close in what must have been joy, even as she sank to her knees, shaking terribly. Erik himself did not even dare to name the feelings that threatened to overcome him as he sang with her. To name them might make him stop.

As the silence fell again, Erik waited, unsure of what madness awaited next. Her eyes opened slowly, staring anxiously into the dark.

“Please, tell me this isn’t a dream,” Christine whispered. Erik hesitated. If ever there was a time to turn back and save himself, this was it.

“This is no dream, Christine,” he reassured her, before any rational thought could stop him.

“Who are you?” she asked, reverent and urgent.

“You know who I am,” Erik replied darkly and Christine’s eyes widened. “I’ve watched you and helped you from the first moment you came here.”

Erik saw the thoughts race through her eyes, watched the lie he knew she would find for him taking root.

“But you can’t be a ghost! How can you be, when you have the voice of…” She froze in fresh wonder and Erik felt the briefest stab of guilt as she gasped. “ _An angel_?” Her hands flew to her mouth in awe and Erik pushed away all lingering remorse or caution. “My angel of music?” she asked, her voice small and completely overcome.

“I have been waiting for you,” he answered, telling himself the lie was just another mask. Her hands dropped from her face, the light he had seen ignite in her when she saw him in the hall suddenly blazing. “No one has seen or known what I truly am but you. I am your angel, Christine, if you will have me,” he continued madly, his voice gentle as temptation. “You have a great gift. If you let me, I will teach you. I will make you into the greatest singer this Opera has ever heard.”

“But how can I repay such a blessing?” she countered breathlessly. Erik hadn’t considered this, but he really hadn’t considered any of his actions tonight, so once more he let his answer come straight from his idiotic heart.

“Sing only for me,” he replied simply. All he wanted was that voice, and to make it his. “Never ask to see me and never question me,” Erik added, prompted by the small part of his mind that was still being somewhat reasonable. Even more so after tonight, he could not bear the thought of her eyes staring at him again.

Christine remained silent where she knelt on the stage, some part of her still clearly frightened to have faith.

“Christine, believe in me, trust me and I will make your dreams come true,” he enticed her, his voice as tender and beautiful as he could possibly make it.

“Then I will trust you, Angel. I will sing for you,” she promised and for the first time since she had come into his opera, she truly smiled. Erik was completely unprepared for how beautiful the sight was. A sudden, unnamable longing struck him like a blow.

“We will begin tomorrow night,” he ordered abruptly, tearing his gaze away from her and forcing himself back to reality. How on earth was he going to accomplish this? “There is a practice room on the fifth level that will be open. Come when everyone else is gone.”

“I’ll be there.” The unquestioning reverence in her voice was astounding and horrifying.

“Sleep now, you will need your rest,” he commanded sternly. He looked back to her; her face had darkened a bit.

“Goodbye then,” she whispered regretfully. He understood her reluctance to part, for he felt it too, despite the part of him that was screaming to run from the insanity he had started.

“You need never say goodbye to me while you are within my opera,” he answered without thinking, his voice kind again against his will. “When you need me, I will always find you, I promise.” Erik sighed as she smiled again, gentle and understanding.

She said nothing else as she retrieved her candle and stood, her face still dreamy and amazed. Erik retreated as the circle of light broadened, shocked by how close he had drifted to the foot of the stage from his hiding place in the orchestra. She looked over her shoulder as she left the stage, a soft smile still playing on her lips. Erik slouched back and sighed, another wave of foolish yearning overcoming him.

 

Christine didn’t bother with the gaslight when she returned to her prop room. She didn’t care. She could have been thrown out to sleep on the cobblestones and it still would have been the most wonderful night of her life. The room – the room he had led her to – was not a dusty, forgotten hiding place; it was a palace. The world was suddenly so fantastic, now that he filled it. It was all so alive and magical and stunning, yet nothing was as beautiful as his voice. She could have listened to that voice until she faded to dust.

She fell back onto her bed, ready to weep again at the sheer madness and miracle of it all.

How could her entire world and life have changed so much in one day? How could she have awoken only that morning not believing in anything? Seeing him had been like a resurrection, but this was Pentecost. The moment when she heard his voice she had been lifted to heaven. The promise hadn’t been forgotten; the angel her father had promised had only been waiting for her to find him.

“Thank you, thank you so much,” she whispered into the darkness beyond the light of her candle. She could feel him in the air, that amazing, magical sense of being watched from the world beyond. It didn’t frighten her at all, indeed, for the first time in years, she felt absolutely safe.  
She was not surprised when the voice rose from the shadow. It made her skin turn to gooseflesh, and yet she felt so warm as she listened to the ghostly melody. It was a lullaby, with a melody familiar yet new and indescribably beautiful. As the sublime music filled her ears, all her thoughts stilled. The ghost’s voice wrapped around her and she felt herself falling asleep but fought it. She wanted to listen to the voice of her angel forever, remembering his eyes.

 

It seemed like hours before Erik finally turned away from where Christine slept and retreated from the prop room. He gasped like a drowning man finally breaking the surface of the water the moment he was outside the door. The past hours had been like a dream but now he was painfully, absolutely awake.

_What in God’s name had he just done_?

He rushed through the dark halls, hoping in vain that putting some distance between himself and the damn girl would undo this madness. He had never been a good man, he knew that very well, but he had never done anything this cruel. He had never perpetrated a lie so massive. Nor had he ever done anything that so stupidly risked exposure.

He leaned against the smooth stones of the stairwell that led down to the fifth cellar, trying to breathe. What had he been thinking?

“Fuck…” he sighed as he sank down to the stairs, bowing his head and shaking it so that more of his dark hair fell into his face.

He had told her he was a bloody angel and for what? A voice? To give the poor deluded creature hope? He pounded a fist softly against the stones, trying not to think of Christine’s joy at the sound of his voice or his own delight at the sight of her smile. He had set out into the dark tonight ready to destroy someone or something and he was quite sure he had succeeded.

~

“There we are, see, nothing to be worried about,” Jean Paul crooned as he brushed César’s white coat. The horse had been unreasonably restless ever since his most recent adventure. “Nothing to fear, not even any rain today!”

“Talking to your brothers?” a gruff voice asked from outside of the stall.

Jean Paul set his shoulders bravely as he turned to the questioner. It was a tall, well-dressed man with clear blue eyes and pale hair to match his complexion. A second extremely bored looking man with brown hair and a thin moustache was standing behind him. Jean Paul knew they were patrons by the very look of them.

“Oh, Messieurs,” Jean Paul mumbled, giving a small bow. “What brings you here?”

“My friend’s horse finds itself suddenly lame,” the second man explained, his voice much kinder than his friend’s. “Thankfully Monsieur Debienne saw my distress and indicated we might borrow one of yours.”

Jean Paul suppressed an angry retort. His mouth had already put him in enough trouble in the last few days. “Of course, Monsieur…any of the mares will carry you.”

“What about that one?” Jean Paul gulped. The man’s blue eyes were set on César.

“I’m sorry, Monsieur, but this is César, he is our star, I cannot simply let him go,” Jean Paul protested. The man sneered.

“Do you know who we are?” the man with eyes like ice asked angrily. “We give the Opera the money that pays for your miserable existence.”

“And don’t you already get enough back?” Jean Paul snapped, remembering the last time he had seen a young singer dashing from the Opera with a torn skirt and tears in her eyes.

“Is this horse really that important?” the second man balked. Jean Paul glanced around to the shadows.

“Monsieur, you may not believe me, but this horse…if he is harmed it will greatly upset…” The men’s eyes widened expectantly. “The ghost.” The bottom went out of Jean Paul’s stomach as the men began to laugh.

“You would defy a patron, for the sake of a phantom?” the second man guffawed.

“You don’t know our ghost, sir,” Jean Paul answered seriously. “Anyone else would do the same.”

“We could tell the managers about this,” the first man snapped impatiently.

“You could, but they know the ghost too,” Jean Paul replied steadily. “They will understand.”

“Come on, Antoine, we’ll find a carriage,” the kinder one muttered, pulling his friend with him out of the door. Jean Paul heaved a sigh of relief, stroking César absently.

“You tell your friend about that, next time he borrows you,” Jean Paul ordered the animal as he shook his immaculate mane. “Tell him I’m loyal and I’m not a fool.”

~

Erik leaned dangerously far into the air from his perch in the flies, trying to get a better view of the rehearsal below. It was as good a distraction as any from the approach of his next encounter with Christine Daaé.

The directors had chosen to run through the staging without costumes or sets, so almost no one was in the jungle of ropes, gears, and catwalks that rose six stories above the stage. Despite that, Erik reminded himself that he had to be careful here. The chief of the flies, a brutish man named Joseph Buquet, had seen him a few months before and it had been a disaster.

It had been a stifling hot summer day, even in the usually cool reaches of the opera house. Erik had been watching a rehearsal, just as he was now. In the heat, he had made the mistake of taking off the mask. It was something he tried never to do, especially in the daylight world, but he had told himself that the flies were too hot that day for anyone to stray there. No one would see him.

He had closed his eyes, leaning closer to the rapturous sound of Bellini’s music, letting cool air from below wash over his face. And then he heard the gasp of horror. Erik had turned to look at the man, whose eyes, red from drink but full of terror, had caught his. It had been the look of repulsion, so different from the look of terror he was accustomed to, that had reminded Erik of his mistake. He had jumped, swinging away among the ropes and into the shadows.

Even now, months later, Erik remembered the man’s voice calling after him: “I saw you! I saw you, _monster_!”

Buquet had been extremely popular for weeks after that; his tale of seeing the ghost unmasked earning him instant notoriety. There were many legends about what lurked beneath the opera ghost’s mask, most of them barely half-correct or so incoherently garbled as to make Erik laugh, but Buquet’s had the unfortunate distinction of being completely accurate. Oddly though, when the incredulous Opera employees heard the tale, many of them did not believe it.

Erik shifted his position among the ropes, the memory of being seen still smarting. He didn’t want to think about his mask now, no more than he wanted to think about the madness of the night before. He wanted to listen to the music below, Verdi’s _Otello_ today, and forget.

He wanted to stop thinking about the girl. He didn’t want to wonder if she had heard what the ghost looked like or if she knew that most people who saw his face left the Opera screaming before they could tell the tale. He didn’t want to compare her voice to the ones below, thinking how much lovelier it was. He didn’t want to hear Desdemona’s prayer and think of the spectacular lie Christine believed.

“Goddamn you, and your stupid angels, Christine,” Erik growled to himself, burying his masked face in his hands. “Goddamn you.”

The music was no consolation. It was not because it was not beautiful, but because of who was singing it. Carlotta was particularly shrill and sour today. Where Christine’s voice was warm and smooth as velvet, Carlotta’s was a brash as brass. Erik descended from the flies, careful to remain unseen, and drew close to the stage, hiding among the billowing, dark curtains.

Carlotta at last finished singing. The chorus gave her smattering of tepid applause, and she began barking orders to her little maid, a small, deflated thing with curly black hair flying wildly from a bun. She was desperately trying to acknowledge each of her diva’s commands. Bring her wrap from the dressing room. Tell so-and-so that these were not the shoes she wanted. The harpy wanted hot water, not tea, just hot water, but not too hot. She continued to rattle off a list of essentials and the maid nodded, all the while looking like she was ready to burst into tears. Finally, Carlotta dismissed her with a wave.

Erik sneered as he followed the little servant. She must have been too distracted by her lady’s orders to remember how dangerous it was to walk alone. Poor thing. It was simply not her day.

She turned down the wrong gloomy hall and Erik had her cornered instantly. Her mouth gaped in silent terror as the ghost advanced on her.

“Your mistress makes far too many demands,” Erik hissed without moving his mouth, only inches from the girl. “And yet you go running to do her bidding like a little dog.”

She seemed to shrink more with each second, as if she were trying to escape right through the ground. Erik laughed coldly in his throat, wondering if she would cry or scream first.

“I’m sorry…” the maid whispered, breathless. “I’m so sorry!” She had chosen to cry.

“I don’t care,” Erik growled. “Get out my sight and let that cow fetch her own water.”

The girl screwed her eyes shut and Erik took the opportunity to melt into the shadows. He heard the desperate retreat of the girl’s terrified footfalls a second later. Erik smiled coldly to himself. He wondered if the maid would run straight out of the Opera, or if she would be stupid or scared enough of Carlotta’s wrath to stay. What would he look like in her nightmares?

He stalked though the halls, racking his brain for ideas to keep himself away from the costumer’s workshop. It was still hours until evening, when his new pupil would seek him out and he would be forced to confront the mess he had made. Not only was he to be an angel, but a teacher as well. He knew more about music than anyone in the Opera, but teaching was an entirely different matter. What would she think if her Angel of Music couldn’t keep his promises?

Erik groaned aloud. He was so tired of thinking about the bloody girl. Perhaps he would visit the managers. Debienne and Poligny would be considering what new productions to stage in the New Year, which usually greatly interested him. He did not know Christine’s voice well enough yet to judge what roles would suit her best, though he would hear her again tonight. What if she was a disappointment? What if she did not come? What if she realized that she had to be utterly mad to want to shut herself in a practice room with the opera ghost, even if she believed he was some stupid angel?

Erik slumped against a wall in the dark. Raising his hands to rub his face in exhaustion. He felt the cold texture of the mask and shook his head. He was glad it was there to remind him of who he was. Christine Daaé was a diversion, like a book or a new composition. She was of no more import than that stupid little maid.

Erik savored the memory of the girl’s fear then grew cold. Christine had not been frightened when she saw him. She had not run. She had not screamed. She had wept tears of pity and joy. She had looked into his eyes and seen something that she could believe was an angel.

~

As the last women finally left the shop, Christine was trembling with anticipation. She fought the urge to run to the fifth floor and forced herself to walk slowly through the empty halls. All day she had grown steadily more nervous. In the past she had dreaded her music lessons like a scourge, as each had been an exercise in disappointment and humiliation. Now she was to sing for the angel she had dreamed of for her entire life. Her steps grew slower as she came closer to the fifth level.

What if he decided she was unworthy and didn’t come? What if he realized what a mistake he had made? What if it had all been a dream? No, she reprimanded herself fervently as she turned down a hall. If she did not believe in him, she had nothing. Still, fear was beginning to choke her, drying up her voice inside her as it had so many times before.

She didn’t know where to go, she realized. She was terrified and lost, as well as pathetic. She would never be a great singer. She turned, ready to head back the way she had come…She stopped at the sound of a piano from the distance. It was Mozart.

She followed the sound, entranced, and came at last to an open door. As she stepped inside, unsure of what she would find, the music stopped. Christine frowned. The meager light of her candle showed an empty practice room, almost completely submerged in thick shadow. The upright piano was angled so that she could see nothing on the keyboard side.

“You’re late,” the angel’s voice reprimanded gently and Christine smiled despite herself in relief. “Put that down and close the door,” he ordered and she placed her candle on the little table by the door and sealed the entrance.

She could not see much beyond the small pool of light, perhaps if she strained she could see a shadow seated at the piano, somewhere in the dark, but every time she tried to focus on his form it seemed to dissolve. She swore she saw the glint of his eyes, but was not sure. Christine didn’t care. He was there and he was real.

“Tell me how much you have studied,” the angel commanded.

“I was at the conservatoire in Rouen for two and a half years,” Christine answered with a small scowl, looking down at her feet and knitting her hands together.

“And before that?” A familiar sadness welled up inside her at the thought.

“My father, he was a great musician, a violinist, he taught me,” she told the angel, though he likely already knew.

“You didn’t like the conservatoire?” the angel redirected her, perhaps sensing her regret.

“Nor did it like me. I…did not do well there.”

“How is that?”

“I never fit in, everyone says I’m odd. I read and think too much. I never say the right things. I’m not demure or sweet like other girls. My teachers didn’t like me either. They didn’t think I had…what was it? Oh yes: ‘the voice, the technique or the heart’ for a career,” Christine explained bitterly. “They only kept me on until the money my father left me ran out. They said I could stay on as a maid if I liked, but they preferred that I left. So I came here.”

“They were fools,” the angel consoled her, kinder than before. Christine had no idea what to say: she was not used to compliments, especially from angels. “Technique can be learned. And you certainly do have the voice.”

“And you have given me the heart,” Christine blurted out. “Or at least…you’ve made me truly want to sing again,” she amended as she looked down, embarrassed.

“I am…glad to hear that.” It was peculiar, but he almost seemed to be at a loss for words. Christine had little time to think about it. “I want to find out what you can do,” he commanded and Christine straightened her posture, ready to sing at last. “Breathe.”

“Breathe?” she echoed, not quite sure what he meant.

“Yes. Breathe in like you’re singing, but don’t sing yet.”

Christine took a deep, nervous breath, her chest expanding and her shoulders rising.

“No,” he stopped her instantly. “Breathe from below, don’t let anything above your waist move.” She tried again, better this time, but still tense. “Relax. Breathe into the base of you back and your stomach. Feel it all the way to the floor. Imagine how it should feel and do it.”

Again she took a breath. This time she could feel it was right.

“Again, then let it out and maintain the support.” Christine obeyed and let the breath hiss out of her mouth. She could feel him watching her critically from the shadow. “Support lower and relax.”  
Again she tried the deceptively simple exercise, focusing her entire will on her muscles.

“Better. Again.”

And again she let the air fill her then pushed it back out from below. This repeated many times until he seemed content that she might move on to actually producing sounds. Notes finally reverberated from the piano.

“Single notes, on the main vowels. Breathe.”

Christine took a breath and sang the first note, hoping more than concentrating.

“No, Christine,” he stopped her before she continued. “Support it. Know what you’re going to sing before the sound comes.”

Christine concentrated, imagining herself doing what he asked and doing it perfectly. She slowly inhaled, feeling the breath in her back as she opened her mouth in the shape that would produce the desired vowel. She felt her vocal chords engage, felt the inside of her mouth expand, and felt herself making the perfect space for on the note and finally a single pulse of sound emerged.

“Next vowel,” he commanded, and there was the same eternity of preparation then the satisfaction of the sound at last flowing from her.

Again and again, through all the pure vowel sounds, slowly and carefully. Small moments of accomplishment were lost forever in exchange for more imagination, preparation and at last the fleeting moments of music.

“You don’t need to force the sounds out. Let them happen. Singing should be always be a pleasure,” her teacher explained before he finally let her sing a full scale. “Just sing; technique is preparation and maintenance of a space for the sound to thrive. The real beauty comes from the heart,” he told her when her tone faltered. “Stand up straight and open your mouth, open everything from the inside, don’t be afraid…”

Joy rushed through her as she sang. She hadn’t taken this much pleasure from her own voice in years, but she had not worked this hard at her music in years either. There were no words, no songs. It was just sound and breath and it was amazing. The most exquisite moments though were when the angel’s voice rose in song. Sometimes it was just for a second to let her hear how the note should sound, but it made Christine’s heart race.

“That’s enough for tonight,” the angel pronounced far too soon.

“But, I don’t want to stop,” Christine grumbled. “I didn’t think it could feel so good to sing, ever again. How soon can I come back?”

From beyond the light she heard a new, wonderful sound: her angel’s laughter. The sound was warm and dark, like wind through the trees on a summer night. It made Christine’s skin tingle.

“Tomorrow night; here again,” he answered. “Can you wait until then?”

“I will try,” Christine smiled back into the dark.

“Rest now though,” the angel countered. “We’ve just begun our work.”

Christine nodded and took up her candle, smiling at the thought of another lesson and hearing his laughter or song again.

“Christine…” She paused, her hand on the handle of the door. “You did very well tonight.”

She beamed and blushed as she left the practice room. Her heart would not stop fluttering as she made her way through the empty Opera.

She had pleased him. That meant he would stay with her, at least for a day more. If she obeyed him, if she sang for him, he would not disappear or leave her. She remembered the world without him like a different life and her heart broke just at the thought. She could not lose him as she had lost everyone else. Not when they had just begun and even the thought of him made her feel like she could fly.

 

Erik made his silent way through the Opera, moving slowly through the shadows without any light to guide him. He did not need a light; he had the memory of her. He smiled. It was a relief to just surrender to the thought of her.

The lesson had been successful beyond his wildest dreams. She still believed in him. There was hope that this would not become the disaster he had feared. He thought of her voice and her smile and how she had blushed when he told her she had done well. Had he ever made another person smile like that? Could another person smile like that?

He stopped in the dark hall, wondering where he was. He had meant to return to his refuge far below, but he could tell by the scent of the air he was not even in the cellars. He smelled musty, forgotten things, dust and wood. The plaster on the walls was smooth and cool beneath his fingers and there was a faint light beneath a door far ahead. He laughed quietly. He should have known himself better by now.

He held his breath as he slipped through the passage into the overcrowded prop room. She was asleep on the thin mattress of the old bed, her head resting on her arms and her face peaceful. It was not the same to look at her like this, when the light from her smile and her eyes was hidden, but she was still beautiful.

He moved closer to her through the shadows, staying hidden amongst the abandoned props and furniture. What a strange thing she was: first to pity him, and now to have such faith. He moved closer to the light, reaching out a long, thin hand. Maybe she…

The light fell on his pale, skeletal hands and Erik stumbled back, reality hitting him like an explosion. _No. No, no, no. Don’t even think it_. Hadn’t he been hurt enough? If Christine ever found out what kind of man he was – that he was a man at all for heaven’s sake – she would not pity him or save him. She would hate him.

He retreated quickly, descending into the pitch-black reaches of the cellars until he reached the lake. He lit the lantern on the prow of the boat – even he did not dare cross in complete darkness. The depths reflected the light on a surface smooth as glass. Erik shook his head at his folly as he looked over the eerie expanse of black.

As he began to pole across the hidden waters he told himself again, sternly and bitterly, that it was madness to think he could forge a real connection with the living world above. It would only result in more scars, more destruction, and more death. Perhaps he could be an angel or a ghost to Christine, but he could never, ever be a man. He could never really be with her, never smile back at her, never touch her…God, what would it feel like to touch her?

He pushed the thought away violently as he drove the long pole into the placid water, his movement tense and angry now. That was why he should never have spoken to her. Even the very threat of desire was unbearable. Ghosts felt no desire, he whispered to himself. Ghosts had no flesh. Ghosts could live forever alone in the darkness, unseen, unhurt, un-judged and blessedly unfeeling. He would never touch the dark waters that would drown him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The aria Christine sings is "Deh Vieni, Non Tardar" From The Marriage of Figaro. On a more modern note, Sara Bareillis' song "Hold My Heart" was an instrumental part in getting this chapter written.


	5. Learning to Breathe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christine learns more than music from her angel.

Louise shivered as she walked towards the costume workshop. Julianne gave her a knowing glance.

“Oh, be quiet,” Louise grumbled.

“I didn’t say anything,” Julianne defended herself with a sly smile.

“You’re just like your father with those looks, he never had to say anything either.” Julianne smirked as they entered the coatroom.

“Good morning, ladies,” Julianne purred to the gaggle of costumers already assembled and stripping off their shawls and coats. Louise rolled her eyes at her daughter’s insidious tone. “Any new stories to tell today?”

“Nothing as good as that poor little maid,” Michelle sighed.

Louise suppressed another shudder and even Julianne looked sympathetic.

“It’s just cruel of Carlotta to make her keep coming back,” Simone lamented.

“Carlotta is doing it _because_ it’s cruel,” Julianne countered with a frown. “She wants to anger the ghost, the fool.”

“He hasn’t been able to get rid of her yet,” Louise muttered.

“Did you hear about…” Elaine began then stopped, pursing her lips disapprovingly.

Louise turned to see the reason: Christine was standing in the door, looking simultaneously curious and far away, as usual.

“Good morning,” the girl murmured to the assembled crowd, who did very little to hide their suspicion of her as she hung her shawl and coat.

“Good morning,” Julianne replied alone, thankfully keeping her accustomed sarcasm to a minimum. Christine gave a disappointed nod and turned away. “She certainly hasn’t won anyone over, has she?” her daughter remarked as the other women began to file out of the coatroom as well.

“It was that nonsense about feeling sorry for the ghost,” Louise sighed, wishing there was more she could do for the girl. “That and she’s stranger than a snowstorm in July.”

Julianne laughed, gave Louise a peck on the cheek and retreated towards her own hidden corner of the Opera to assist with the rehearsal preparations.

Louise entered the workshop proper, struck as always by the contrast between the drab, faded colors of the seamstress’ clothes and the vibrant rainbow of the costumes that surrounded them. Christine was standing, staring at the rafters. She seemed surprised when Michelle pushed past her to get to her seat.

“What are you looking at, girl?” Michelle demanded tartly.

“Just the costumes, I was wondering what it would be like to wear one,” Christine replied as if she was a mile away. Michelle was not the only one to laugh.

“Well, thank heaven that’s not something you’ll ever find out,” Elaine snapped and Christine looked down. She said nothing else as she took her accustomed seat at the corner of the mending table. “Like I was saying before, I heard that one of the basses saw him just the other day,” the older woman began again.

“Well, at least no one’s been hurt lately,” Michelle interjected.

“That’s not a good sign,” Elaine argued. “It just means he’s waiting for something.”

Louise watched the women at the table cast Christine another disapproving glare. Louise could not blame them since – of all the foolish things she could have been doing – the girl was smiling.

~

Erik sent a large gear flying across the room and scowled at the pitiful sound it made as it bounced to the floor. He didn’t even have the capacity to make a decent clatter today, let alone sort out the tangle of metal and wire in front of him. Usually such mechanical curiosities could keep him distracted for hours, but he had barely been able to summon enough concentration to sit down. He pushed back from the worktable, shaking his head in frustration as he looked at the wreckage. Usually the whole room was in a state of pleasant chaos, but there was no charm to it today. Even the shelves of books seemed to mock him with how utterly unable he was to focus on them.

He strode from the study and into the central room of his home. He had declined to light and extra candles, hoping that more darkness would calm his mind. Like everything else he had tried to distract himself for the past two weeks, it had been quite useless. The clock above the fire said it was just past noon. She had been able to afford her own food for a while now; she might have left again to eat. Perhaps she was lingering by the kitchens.

Erik cried out aloud at the unbidden thought, tangling his hands in his hair and wishing he could simply tear the thought of her from his mind. For God’s sake, he did not care when she ate. He did not care when she came or went. He did not care if she was happy or sad. She was just a voice, a means to an end.

He seated himself stiffly at the piano, launching himself into one of the more daunting Goldberg Variations, Bach’s notes and counterpoint as perfect as the clockwork he had just been struggling with before.

He was stronger than this. He would not let the thought of her tempt him into any more mad fantasies than it already had. He could imagine her on the stage, singing beautiful music for him alone. He could imagine the fools in the audience applauding her, not knowing that they were praising the pupil of the monster they had driven into the dark.

That was all he would dream. Not of knowing her, or looking into her eyes again. Or of touching her. It was easy to say that now of course, though not as easy as it had been the day before. Erik played faster, trying so desperately not to think of how much harder it was to fend off those dreams in the cold reaches of the night, when he knew she was asleep above. Erik clenched his jaw, his long hands flying over the keys, letting the music sweep him away and drown out the memory of her voice.

~

Christine closed her eyes and let the weak autumn sunlight warm her face. She had followed some of the other costumers to a boulangerie on the Avenue De l’Opera and now they all were sitting on the steps in front of the huge theater. The other women were gathered together, gossiping about the prima ballerina’s latest conquest and trying to avoid looking at Christine. She ignored their rudeness in turn, choosing instead to savor the flaky pastry and the sunlight. Everyone said it would be one of the last warm days before the November rains began. She doubted they would have even let her follow them if they could hear her thoughts.

She was thinking of him, of course, and of how odd it had been to leave the Opera. She had left a few other times in the past two weeks – once to buy desperately needed new shoes, a few other times to buy food – but each time she had missed the feeling of him watching over her. It had been like walking outside in winter without a coat. It did feel good to sit in the sun, but Christine would still be relieved when they returned to the dusky reaches of the costume shop and she could begin to count the minutes until she would hear his voice again.

After more than two weeks of astonishing lessons, that voice still amazed her. Even though she heard it and felt him, it still did not seem real. It was of course quite possible that she had indeed finally lost her mind. After all, her angel said she would be a great diva one day, which she still could not bring herself to believe. His actions told her that he was doubtful too, since he had yet to allow her to sing any real music. Everything had been scales and breathing and single tones and trills and breathing and long notes spinning out the sound and still more breathing.

Christine looked over her shoulder to where the horrible doorman was scurrying down the steps to shoo away the costumers. They all rose quickly, each giving him the same dirty look. Christine glanced past him, imagining what it might be like to enter the Opera through the front door for once: as a diva, sweeping that stupid little rat away like so much dust. She smirked and followed the group of women around the back of the massive building.

Christine stepped through the employee’s entrance and the shadows immediately absorbed the memory of the autumn sun. She closed her eyes, waiting to feel the tingle over her skin that told her he was close, but it did not come. She had not been expecting it immediately.  
The feeling of him watching occurred at random, though it came most consistently at night. She would close her eyes to dream and feel him standing watch.

And there were times, in the dark of the halls, or amongst the shadows of her prop room at night, when she felt that if she turned around fast enough, or looked into the dark hard enough, she would see him again. What she wouldn’t give to see his eyes again…

Christine stopped still in the corridor, realizing with faint amusement that she had made a wrong turn and had lost her fellow costumers, or perhaps they had seized the opportunity and abandoned her. If only she could find her way about the Opera as easily as he always found her.

“Are you lost, mongrel?” Christine started at the joyless voice from behind her. It was an extremely well dressed woman; her finery of golden silks, velvet and pearls all the more extravagant in comparison to Christine’s miserable gray dress. The beautiful, raven-haired woman was smaller than Christine and yet it was as if she was sneering down from a great height, so clear was her disdain.

“I was just going to the costumers,” Christine stammered. The woman surveyed Christine with a look in her gray-blue eyes that made the younger woman wilt in shame.

“Well, I certainly hope you don’t find it,” the woman sneered, visibly appalled. “If those dirty hands touch one of my costumes, I’ll need to burn the thing so the fleas wouldn’t spread.”

Christine went pale, wishing she could disappear. “I’m sorry…I didn’t mean to…” Christine attempted, looking at the floor.

“Get out of my sight and back on the street where you belong, little insect, or I will have you removed,” the diva scoffed.

Christine needed no further order to turn and run as fast as her feet could carry her, humiliation squirming beneath her skin. When she finally made it back to the costumers, the suspicious, disapproving stares were almost too much to endure. She picked up a costume, trying to focus on her work, pathetic as it was, rather than on the memory of the woman’s insults and withering stare.

She would not cry. She was better than that. But how could she ever be a diva when the real ones knew from a glance she did not belong in their world? How could she ever find a real place at the Opera when barely anyone even wanted her among the costumes? How could she ever be on the stage when her teacher would not let her really sing?

~

“No. _Relax_ ,” Erik chastised for what must have been the twentieth time that night, cutting Christine off in the middle of an octave run. Christine was singing terribly, as if after two weeks of lessons, something had set her back a dozen years.

“I’m sorry…” Christine stuttered, shame and disappointment written clearly on her face.

“Don’t be sorry, just concentrate and do it right,” Erik snapped coldly. “Just sing.”

“But you won’t let me sing!” Christine burst out miserably and Erik drew back in surprise. “I mean not really…”

“If you cannot trust me, perhaps we should stop,” Erik reprimanded. His heart leapt to his throat in panic as tears welled up in Christine’s eyes. “Oh, Christine, I did not mean that…”

“No, you’re right,” she whimpered, shaking her head.

“Christine, what has happened?” Erik asked, surprising himself with the depth of his concern.

“Some woman, a singer I think, she caught me lost in the hall earlier today,” she muttered, roughly wiping the tears from her face and sniffling. “She was so cruel. She knew just by looking at me that I didn’t belong here. Perhaps she was right. Maybe I don’t belong.”

“Christine Daaé, haven’t I told you to trust me?” Erik asked, far more tenderness in his voice than he had intended.

She gave a guilty nod, her eyes darting to where he hid.

“Then you must believe me when I say: she could not have been more wrong. This is my opera, you silly girl, and I would not be teaching you if did not belong here.” Christine knit her brows doubtfully. “Let me guess what this woman looked like: black hair, gray eyes, an expression liked somebody was holding a dead fish under her nose? I know who that was and next time she or anyone tells you that you do not belong here, I want you to tell them to go jump off the roof.”

Christine gave a weak, tearful laugh and a half-smile.

“I wish was I was that brave,” she muttered ruefully.

“You don’t have to wish it, you already are brave,” Erik argued gently. “You’re the bravest person I’ve seen in these walls.”

“What?” Christine gaped.

“You’ve never been afraid of me.” It was true. She had more reason to fear him than anyone, since he could destroy her with a word, and yet she foolishly trusted the ghost. “You survived alone in a cruel world for three years, don’t you think that’s brave?” Erik prodded, pushing back the thought of how easy it would be to hurt her. “You kept going, you didn’t give up.”

“Yes, I did,” Christine contradicted, her voice barely more than a whisper. “After Papa died, I wasn’t brave. I was…nothing.”

Erik cocked his head, perplexed.

“Papa was the brave one. But when he…left…” New tears were visible in the corners of her eyes, sparkling in the light of her single candle.

“You must miss him terribly,” Erik stated, realizing how obvious and foolish the words were as he said them. “Tell me about him.”

“He was a great musician,” Christine began with visible difficulty. “The only thing he loved more than music was me. He loved to tell me stories and he was so wonderful at it. He told me tales of trolls and faeries and magic, of Little Lotte, and stories…about the angel of music, about you.” Erik cringed a bit at the brief look of joy in her eyes. “We traveled everywhere together, just the two of us, from the time I was six, when we left Sweden.”

“Sweden?” Erik echoed in surprise.

“Yes, that’s where I was born. Our home there was the only place we ever lived for more than a year. After we came to France we traveled, singing and doing any odd jobs that would feed us. Sometimes he would find work in an orchestra or symphony, but he hated staying anywhere for so long. Sometimes we worked as servants, or we sang at fairs, and even entertained wealthy families.” The words and memories were coming easier now. She was almost smiling.

“He taught me everything, though he’d put me in real schools when we could afford it and stay long enough. There were places we’d return to each year, especially near the sea. We both loved the ocean. Those were the only places where I really had any acquaintances that came close to friends. Well, just one actually. I’m sure he’s forgotten me now.”

“What about your mother?” Erik already guessed the answer.

“She died when I was six.”

“The same year you left Sweden.”

“That was why we left. We left our country, our home, everything, because it reminded him too much of her. He loved her very much. I know I look like her, and that made him sad. I don’t remember much else about her though, and Papa wouldn’t speak about her. He told me other stories, and he kept telling me stories long after most girls outgrow such things, and he told be that he would never lie to me, that all his stories were true.” She paused, more unnoticed tears staining her pale skin. “He was all I had, my world. When I lost him…I wasn’t brave. I was just…empty. Maybe I still am.”

“You think part of you died with him,” Erik guessed softly, reading the story from her beautiful face and trying to understand her. “Not just the part of you that was brave, but the part that could really feel. And…you wanted to let it die, because if you were dead to the world, it could not hurt you again. If you weren’t even alive, you would not have to miss him.”

Replace a father with an entire world and he might as well be telling his own story, he thought bitterly as Christine drew a ragged breath.

“But you didn’t die, Christine. You survived. And you cannot be dead when you sing. This is what I’ve been trying to teach you. Singing is breathing. And breathing is life, the conscious act of living. Somewhere deep within when you choose to breathe, you _choose to live_. Some un-surrendering part of you chooses to continue,” he whispered, surprised at his own words even as a new light began to glow in Christine’s eyes. “When you sing, you are living. You are transforming the very force of your life into something beautiful, even when it hurts so terribly…So, I know you’re brave Christine, because even after all the pain, you keep breathing.”

Christine’s face was full of wonder as she slowly began to smile.

“Papa always said that: when you are frightened, just tell the monsters that you will not run, and when they see that you are ready to fight back, they will just disappear,” she murmured fondly.

“Don’t ever be afraid to fight back,” Erik encouraged in the shadows, touched by her faith and oddly proud. He had inspired fear and revulsion all his life, never the opposite. “Never doubt me. Have faith in me, sing for me, and you need never fear,” Erik confirmed. “Fight back, and I will be with you.”

“I will, Angel.” The trust and light in her face was astonishing.

“Now, we will try again,” he ordered, drawing a scale from the piano. “Breathe…” And when she opened her mouth to sing, her voice was more beautiful than ever before.

~

Christine lost herself in thought as she made her way back to her secret refuge in the prop room. She felt so strong, like Saint Joan in her armor with all the force of heaven behind her. Her angel understood her so completely, she thought. Strange how the person that suddenly knew her better than anyone else in the world was not a person, nor of this world, she considered as the flame of her candle quivered and the shadows pulsed around her in the corridor.

He was a strange angel. He was not some figure made of light, but a specter of darkness. Had he breathed once, long ago? Was that where the sorrow in his eyes came from? Had he lived and ached? She slipped in to the prop room, remembering the fleeting moments when he sang when she heard something that she could only call longing in his voice. What could an angel ever long for? She felt a shiver beginning at the bottom of her spine as she settled on to her stolen bed. Who had her ghost been? Was that why he wore a mask – he didn’t want anyone to ever know? She sighed, pushing away the useless questions.

 _Trust him, fight back_ , she told herself, lying back, and breathing deep.

~

Erik stood in the shadows, watching Christine’s sleeping face in the candlelight. Her countenance was so different now than the first time her had watched her like this. He knew of course because he had watched her every night since then. It had sometimes been only for a few moments, sometimes for much longer, but each night, he always found his way to her.

He had gone further than he had meant to in their lesson, learning more about her than he told himself he wanted to know and speaking more kindly than before. That really should not have shocked him, since he always went too far whenever she was involved.

His usual foolishness concerning her was not what was disturbing him though. It was that passing thought, of how he could hurt her so deeply if he so desired. He could destroy her…and he did not want to. He did not want to see this poor girl suffer anymore. If he truly was her angel that meant it was not just his duty to teach her, it was his responsibility to protect her. She was his, nothing could hurt her, he thought with a sudden fervent determination.

Even as the thought filled him with resolve, he drifted closer to the edge of her bed, closer than he had ever dared to come in a dozen nights of watching her. He knelt, studying her face. He could not imagine why he would ever want to hurt someone who was so beautiful when she smiled. It was so wonderfully warm this close to her.

He was close enough to touch her.

The dream he had pushed away every night since he had become an angel washed over him like the tide. He just wanted to touch her, to feel that she was real. How warm would her skin be? She was asleep; she wouldn’t run away. She would never know.

His hand hovered near her cheek. If he touched her, he would not be a ghost any more…and that would destroy her. He drew back his hand as if from a flame. He had to protect her.

He fled in to the darkness, speeding through the shadows away from Christine as quickly as possible. Her eyes burned in his memory as he reached the edge of the lake. He stopped running and breathed deeply and desperately, the cold, dank air filling his lungs. He was breathing, as he had taught her. He was living just like he told her to while he ignored what it meant to him.

“What have you done to me, Christine?” Erik asked her memory aloud, panting as he leaned against a hard, unseen wall.

No, that was wrong. It was not what she had done, it was what she was undoing. She had tempted him from the dark, and with each step he took closer to her, the illusions he had so built up so carefully were falling away.

Before her, he had been content, not happy – someone like him would never really be _happy_ – but he had been pleased with the life he had created for himself far from the cruel, cold light of day. He had learned, finally and so painfully, that the world of the living wanted nothing from him and he wanted nothing from it, but she made him forget all that. She made him realize that he had never stopped breathing.

He could lie to the world, to Christine, but his breath would not let him lie to himself. He was alive. And that girl, that damn girl…She made him _want_ to be.

~

Christine was nervous as she lingered outside the practice room. She had spent the day even more lost in her thoughts than usual. She had not felt him watch her for the entire day though. She had felt so marvelous after that last lesson, but had she disappointed him somehow despite that?

She pushed open the door. The room was as dark as ever, but there was an addition to the scant furnishings: a music stand, and placed upon it, a score.

“It is time for you to start applying what you’ve learned,” her angel ordered tersely, breaking the silence as she caressed the score. His voice seemed cold today and more distant than usual. She didn’t protest his tone though.

He had given her Mozart.

~

Guillame Poligny jumped as Debienne slammed the door to the manager’s office hard enough that the portraits on the wall clattered against the plaster.

“For heaven’s sake, man, don’t startle me like that!” Poligny cried, gripping his chest. The morning has already been far too eventful for his taste.

“The books are off. Again,” Debienne snapped, frowning deeply beneath his waxed, black moustache.

“By how much?” Poligny gulped. Explaining the grievous state of the Opera’s ledger to the ministry of fine arts was one of the least agreeable of their managerial duties. Not that there were really any of his managerial obligations that could be deemed pleasant.

“Forty thousand,” Debienne grumbled and Poligny found himself suddenly choking.

“How can we have lost…forty…thousand…” Poligny rasped.

“Oh no, you mistake me, Guillame,” Debienne consoled him, flopping into his chair tiredly. “We have _found_ forty thousand francs that was not there before, and now must explain that. Our ghost must have been feeling generous this week,” Debienne sneered, wiping the sweat from his balding head and disturbing the thin, black hair plastered there.

“Well he’s certainly been generous in his advice,” Poligny sighed, throwing the latest missive from the grave to his partner. He watched Debienne read the note and scowl.

“Dear lord! ‘ _Since you lack the courage and cast to stage any notable work of Wagner, nor the respect for enduring genius to attempt Mozart, I hope you shall continue to at least give Verdi more time than the inferior works of Monsieur Meyerbeer_.’ Of all the nonsense!”

“The worst part is that he’s right,” Poligny grimaced, running a hand through the hair that had become so much grayer in his time as a manager. “ _Rigoletto_ would be pleasing, don’t you think? As good a showcase as any for Carlotta.”

“That won’t make him happy,” Debienne noted, picking up pen and opening a ledger with a resigned shrug.

“Good,” Poligny muttered.

“Be quiet, Guillame,” Debienne chided. “You know haw bad things get when he’s is not pleased.” A small wave of nausea hit Poligny at the thought. He gave Debienne a dark look.

“I know, Herbert,” he told the smaller man, shaking his head. “I know.”

~

“Would you stop that humming!” someone barked at Christine, shocking her from a dream. Had she been humming? She had been going over her music in her head all week since she her angel had begun to allow her real songs. It must have slipped out.

“Sorry,” she whispered insincerely. Everyone was very quiet and nervous today, though Christine couldn’t remember the reason. Saving her too much wondering, the reason chose that moment to walk in.

It was the woman who had called Christine a mongrel. She was as well dressed as she had been when Christine had encountered her before. Today it was emerald green taffeta and silk, with an intricate hat pinned to her tall black coiffure. She looked over Christine and her compatriots with a wilting expression, like a queen surveying peasants. The costumers in turn seemed terrified of her.

“Let’s get this done quickly! I don’t even see why I have to be here, among all this,” the woman gestured to the rest of the room and screwed up her face in disgust. She spoke with a strange, undefined accent Christine could neither place nor believe was legitimate.

“But, Signora,” a sycophantic man trailing behind her protested weakly, “you insisted on making sure your costumes were made to your exact specifications. You’re simply here to inspect and you said you didn’t want any of the rabble in your dressing room,” he tried to placate the woman with a simpering smile.

The _Signora_ huffed in perturbed agreement.

“What is _that_?” Christine whispered to little Camille beside her, feeling a stronger kinship with her fellow rabble.

“ _That_ is La Carlotta,” the petit girl answered quickly, looking at the diva with disdain almost equal to Christine’s.

“I should have known,” Christine muttered. So, this terrible woman was the voice that Christine had heard and disliked so strongly. She felt her aversion to the diva grow a bit closer to hate.

“What on earth is this sack for? You don’t really expect me to wear this?” Carlotta exclaimed to Louise as she surveyed a simple white shift.

“It’s for the prison scene in _Faust_ , Signora. It is an exact copy of what you’ve worn before,” Louise answered calmly.

“And I hated that costume as well, I’m sure I’ve requested it be changed at least a dozen times. Haven’t I, Ledour?” she spat back like a spoiled child.

“Indeed, Signora,” the twittering insect of a man who followed her replied. He had a pointed face and small spectacles and remained so hunched behind his mistress that it was impossible to know who tall he really was.

“I hadn’t heard that request,” Louise retorted coolly.

“Well, perhaps you should learn to listen, you stupid seamstress,” Carlotta sneered. Christine felt a wave of loathing, her own included, rise from the costumers.

“And what else do you think would be appropriate? Marguerite is in prison at the time and the options are limited,” Louise asked, completely ignoring the prima donna’s acid tone. Christine smiled in admiration.

“Something like I wear in the second act,” Carlotta mused, obviously imagining her own beauty. “Blue perhaps.”

“Blue is a lovely color on you, Signora,” her pet echoed. “And your admirers would be thrilled at so bold a choice of costume.”

Christine had the sudden urge to throw the toe shoe she had been repairing at the man’s oily head. No, that would be a waste of the shoe.

“Taffeta perhaps? Or satin?” Carlotta suggested, grinning as Christine nearly choked on her breath.

“Are you sure?” Louise ventured, catching the sickened glances from around her.

“I am,” Carlotta growled. “Do you think there is something wrong with my idea of how _I_ should be dressed?” she demanded with a rudeness that reminded Christine not just of her own encounter with the harpy, but every cold and cruel insult from others like her she had ever endured.

 _Fight Back_.

“Of course there is something wrong with your idea,” Christine snapped.

The entire room turned to her, their expressions ranging from horror and shock to Carlotta’s absolute disgust. The diva surveyed Christine.

“Do I know you?” Carlotta asked coldly.

“I’m quite sure you don’t,” Christine answered with quiet resolve. It was useless to try to hide now. “It’s just, you’re supposed to be playing a fallen woman in prison – you can’t wear blue satin, it would look absurd,” Christine continued without waiting, her voice surprisingly steady.

“And I suppose you would know quite a lot about fallen women?” Carlotta pronounced snidely, advancing on Christine.

“I’m sure not as much as you, _Signora_ ,” Christine answered instantly, trying not to smirk.

She was quite sure that if Carlotta had been closer she would have slapped her. Instead she only opened and closed her mouth, giving the impression she was an over-dressed and very angry fish.

“How dare you!” Ledour gasped, peeking at Christine in shock from behind his diva.

“I merely know the opera,” Christine stated simply.

“You think you know my opera better than I do?” Carlotta snapped, finally regaining her fire.

“I just thought that, since the Paris Opera strives for perfection in all things, that meant perfection in accuracy as well,” Christine explained, casting her eyes down with false demureness.

“The only perfection that the audience cares about is me and my voice,” Carlotta declared. “Everything else is just framework for my art, and if I wish for a frame of satin it is not the place of a little toad like you to object.”

Christine took a deep breath.

“Perhaps, but that does not mean that I am wrong.” She was heartened to see Louise fighting back a grin from outside of the diva’s field of vision.

Carlotta advanced a little closer.

“The only thing you will ever be is wrong,” the soprano hissed, low in her throat. “You are nothing more than a washerwoman. Or you were.” Carlotta looked to Louise. “Fire her,” she ordered cheerfully. “Come, Ledour!” she yelped and huffed out of the costume shop, leaving everyone staring at Christine in amazement and sympathy.

Christine’s stomach sank to the floor.

“Oh dear, someone should have told you not to cross Carlotta!” exclaimed Camille, who seemed close to tears.

“Why? I thought that was quite a show!” Louise rebuffed, grinning.

“What? But she just…” Elaine gaped.

“Fired Christine?” Louise chuckled. “You know she can’t do that, you ninny, she doesn’t have the authority. Doesn’t stop the bitch from ‘firing’ at least one employee a day, but she’s so caught up in herself that she can’t remember them all. I think she’s sacked me at least four times,” Louise winked at Christine, who had sunk back to her seat. “Our little hero isn’t going anywhere.”

People around Christine smiled and remarked their approval. She blushed, trying to remember the last time she had felt so proud or accepted.

“She is a terror isn’t she,” white-haired Elaine remarked.

“Quite,” Christine murmured, joining in the chorus of agreement.

“Have you ever done a fitting with her?” Michelle, the severe dark-haired seamstress across from Christine and Camille asked.

“Oh, God, yes! It was terrible!” Elaine cried. “It’s just like Louise said: she tried to have us all sent off because she thought that we made her look fat!”

“Perhaps it’s the fact that she’s a nasty old cow that made her look fat,” Camille interjected then covered her mouth in horror at what she had said.

“Does everyone hate her?” Christine asked though a laugh, emboldened by the warm looks still being directed at her.

“Well, I think the managers are fond of her and the audiences certainly love her,” Elaine sighed.

“Debienne likes her private performances more than her public ones, if you know what I mean,” Michelle, suggested in a mischievous sing-song voice and everyone laughed knowingly.

“Even the ghost doesn’t like her!” Camille exclaimed.

“The ghost _despises_ her!” Michelle corrected.

“I guess that means he can’t be all bad,” Christine ventured and no one corrected her.

“He’s always tormenting her! Things fall onto the stage during her rehearsals, doors lock on their own and make her late,” Camille elaborated gleefully. “Someone broke her mirror and destroyed half her jewels last month.”

“I can’t think of a more deserving victim,” Elaine added.

“Did you hear what she made them do after finding that mess?” Louise joined the animated discussion. “She had them install a bath, with hot running water and everything, right in her damn dressing room! Cost them a fortune!”

“Why in God’s name do they keep her here?” Christine asked, appalled.

“Because apparently she’s a great singer,” Camille grumbled.

“Not that great,” Christine muttered and Elaine flashed her a smile.

“And she won’t let anyone else get enough influence or fame to compete with her. Singers are really terrified of her because she does remember them and when she wants them shut out, they are,” Louise explained.

“Even if they find someone as good as her, or even better, she’ll never let them have a chance,” Elaine lamented, stabbing her needle into a blouse with particular ferocity.

“It would take a brave soul indeed to try and compete with that demon! I can’t think of anyone that could do it that’s at the Opera now,” Louise sighed.

“ _I can_ ,” the angel’s voice whispered in Christine’s ear.

~

“That is enough for tonight. Rest now, you’ve had quite the eventful day,” Erik ordered kindly as the night’s lesson came to an end. He was in a better mood than in a week thanks almost entirely to Christine’s fantastic performance against Carlotta. He could not have been more pleased with her than if he had told off the bitch himself. “I believe we may add some Gounod to your repertoire starting tomorrow, _Faust_ perhaps?”

“Really?” Christine asked with a luminous, unguarded smile. “But that’s one of Carlotta’s roles…”

“Is it? Well, all the better than,” Erik replied and watched her smile broaden. “Unless you were worried about offending our great diva?” Erik savored the look of mischief on her face.

“I think I’m past worrying about that,” she grinned.

“I thought you were fantastic, by the way, if you were wondering.” She covered her face as she laughed, which Erik wished she wouldn’t do. She was so lovely when she laughed. “You were very brave, and I was very proud.”

She dropped her hands and he could see she was blushing.

“I fought back. I know I should have been scared, and I was; but I just kept breathing. I knew you were with me…”

“I’ll always protect you,” Erik told her earnestly. “I think such wonderful bravery deserves a reward don’t you?”

“A reward?” Christine parroted with an inquiring smile. “Isn’t _Faust_ enough?”

“Oh no, you need something much more…fitting.”

She cocked her head curiously.

“Have you ever been to the principal’s dressing rooms? There is one I have heard of, number three I believe, which has lately become possessed of a rather interesting embellishment. Sadly though, it seems the lock on the door never seems to work at the right time.”

“You’re not saying…” Christine murmured, her eyes wide in elated shock.

“Of course if you were to make a mess, it might cause quite an uproar and be terribly upsetting to the regular occupant of said dressing room.”

She had started laughing, absolutely delighted by the idea. Erik could not help but join her.

 

It was half an hour later that he leaned against the wall of the corridor outside Carlotta’s sumptuous dressing room. In her innocence, Christine had not even bothered to close the door entirely, and he could see her through the crack. He dared not push it further open, though he dearly wanted to. Her back was to him as she soaked in the copper tub, filled with steaming, soapy water. He could see only her shoulders, but it was more than enough.

She was singing as she washed; not opera, but something more rural, an old folk song deep in her throat. He wanted to join her, but he could not risk her realizing he was still there. Though he knew she could often sense his eyes, he desperately did not want her to know he was watching, not now while desire writhed inside him. Her hair was loose down her back; the water had turned it black. Her wet, shining skin was flushed from the heat.

Erik wanted to drink in the sight of her before the part of him that rebelled against this madness finally triumphed, before the fantasy inevitably turned into an ache that would consume him. Before he remembered who and what he was, he wanted to watch her and think of her bravery and her laugh and her skin and her smile and her eyes. He wanted to dream for a few moments longer of touching her. He wanted to watch her from the darkness as he tried to remember how to breathe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are a few phantom trivia/history easter eggs hidden in this one, but they won't be the last!


	6. Sealing Luck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christine joins the Opera chorus.

Christine could feel the cold radiating from the creamy marble of the huge, double-horseshoe grand staircase as she descended it, passing the entrance to the auditorium and smiling. It was still impossible to pick out every detail of the opulent foyer and salons: the marble of deep pink and white and gold, the intricate carvings and bronze work that must have taken months to perfect, each perfectly placed tile still visible in the dimming light of sunset.

The implacable nymphs holding their candelabrum aloft at the base of the grand staircase seemed to watch her as she made her way down to the rotunda, running her fingers over the salamanders hidden at their feet. Christine reached the rotunda level and took a moment to admire the bronze sculpture above the fountain, situated beneath the stairs. _Pythia_ it was called. She loved the way the sprite seemed to be looking over her shoulder, as worried about being caught amidst such splendor as the seamstress that surveyed her.

Christine slipped through an innocuous door past the box office and she was instantly in a world of wood and plaster, but just as shadowy and quiet. She found her way easily now in the dark honeycomb of corridors. The real world of the Opera was here, beneath and around the stage, among the dressing rooms, offices, scene shops, armories, storage rooms, kitchens, practice rooms large and small, dance salons and rehearsal halls. She passed by the machinery that moved the landscapes of dreams, up twisting dark stairs and finally to the deserted corridor that led to her lesson. Most employees of the Opera would avoid a dark hall like this alone, for fear of being caught by the ghost. Christine smiled to herself at how wonderfully odd it was that she wanted to find the phantom.

“Where have you been?” the angel asked sternly the moment she entered, his voice kind but frustrated.

“I was in the foyer…I wanted to see it before dark,” Christine explained, a bit embarrassed. “That awful doorman was gone, so I didn’t have to worry too much about being chased out.”

“Why would you be chased out?” He almost sounded concerned, which made Christine’s heart jump. It had been a week and a day since Carlotta and he had not shown another moment of similar warmth in that time.

“I don’t really look like someone who belongs there,” Christine shrugged.

“I’ve told you, you belong here more than anyone.”

“Except you,” she corrected softly.

“Yes, except for me.” Christine frowned, she had never heard anything in his voice so like regret. “Let us begin,” he commanded suddenly and Christine immediately realigned her body into the posture he had been drilling into her for a month.

They began with just the breath, as always, then humming, and then single notes followed by trills. Scales covering just a fifth eventually gave way to octaves and more until she was flying through her entire range.

“Keep everything open, like you’re yawning and imagine the sound going out of your eyes and face,” her teacher encouraged. “Keep your jaw and face relaxed, don’t let it hold anything back. Shoulders down, and don’t forget the support. Yes, perfect…”

Christine smiled at the praise as they finally turned to the music he had provided, Verdi tonight. The music was not half as successful as the first half of the lesson.

Her angel stopped his accompaniment after she had misread the lyrics a third time. “Do you not understand what you’re singing?”

Christine looked sickly towards the single candle he allowed her.

“No…I mean, yes…I mean, I would if I could see it,” Christine explained, spitting out the words quickly and guiltily. There was only silence in reply. “Could I…perhaps bring another candle next time?”

“No,” her angel answered coldly.

“But why?” She felt a wave of disapproval through the air like a cold breeze.

“I have told you…”

“But other people see you. _I’ve_ seen you…” she protested, ignoring the sound of disapproval rising in his voice.

“Have I not made it clear, Christine, no questions,” he shot back.

“That was not a question, it was a statement.”

“Christine!” She hunched her shoulders defensively and bit her lips. His voice had not been entirely angry though, she noted in the back of her mind. “We will find another way,” he stated with dark finality. “You may sing something you have memorized.”

“May I chose?” she asked humbly. She was glad in that moment she could not see him, since she could feel his perturbed glare through the shadows.

“Fine,” he agreed, surprising her. This time she was sure she heard the faint amusement in his voice. She seized on the chance.

“ _A voice, a little while ago, echoed here in my heart_ ,” she sang, launching into the halting recitative of Rossini’s mischievous music without introduction. He picked up the accompaniment without hesitation.

“ _My heart is wounded now, and it was Lindoro who made it so…_ ” she sang with a sly smile. “ _Yes, Lindoro shall be mine, I swear it shall be so_.” The phrase repeated, trilling and intricate, and defiant and the accompaniment began to dance.

“ _My tutor shall object, and I quick-witted shall be sharp. In the end he will acquiesce and I will be happy_.” The phrases became more ornamented and delicate, her voice skipping lightly through the playful trills, the sound of laughter made into music.

“ _I am docile, I am respectful, I am obedient, sweet, affectionate_ ,” she sang casting an apologetic glance to the darkness. Her voice was full of sarcastic sweetness and gentility, as she continued to outline Rosina’s gentle nature. “I _will let myself be guided…but…_ ” She grinned at the sound of soft laughter from the beyond the music. “ _If they touch me where I am vulnerable, I will be a viper and I will play a hundred tricks before giving in_!”

The phrases and words repeated, each time more rebellious coloratura dancing from her throat. She could feel his begrudging amusement through the music as her voice flew and sparkled. The final high note blossomed from her throat as she threw her head back and it felt as if she was made of mirth and light. She burst into laughter as the music continued to its conclusion beneath her, her cheeks afire at her own insolence. She grinned in relief as he laughed with her.

“Are you finished?” he asked smoothly.

“I hope not,” she answered coyly, slowly regaining her composure. The shadows around her gave a resigned sigh.

“Neither do I.”

~

Erik rested his head on his hand, hating the feel of the mask more than usual. His free hand absently played the melody of _Una Voce Poco Fa_. The ache for her was particularly acute tonight, thanks to her beautiful defiance.

What on earth was he going to do? She wanted to see him and now more than ever before he could not allow that. There had been moments in the last few days when he had felt with profound dread how illusory the barrier between them was. Nothing kept her from discovering him but shadows and her foolish trust and nothing but his fading will kept her from him.

And then there was her voice. In just a month her talent had bloomed more fantastically than he had ever expected, as if she had truly been touched by heaven. He couldn’t let his monstrousness, his idiotic desires, or poor goddamn lighting affect her work, not when everything was going so well. If anything, she needed to be singing more. If he could just put something solid between them, even find, God forbid, a way to get her to sleep outside the Opera, it would be better. She had to have money enough to find a room, even just in one of those boarding houses that sheltered half-a-dozen chorus girls under the supervision of one apathetic matron.

The solution struck him instantly, infuriating in its simplicity. It would be simple. Afterwards, his life would be simple again as well.

She was reading when he found her in the prop room, curled beneath a thin blanket. He had provided her a new book a few days before, a heavy volume on the lives of the great composers. He waited a while, watching her, remarking on the thoughtful look on her face, the color of her skin in the candlelight, the clarity of her wonderful eyes.

“Christine,” he called out to her and watched her entire body react to the sound of his voice.

“Angel…” she whispered, the book in her hands utterly forgotten as a look of tremulous anticipation and veneration spread over her face.

“Tomorrow, I want you to come to our lesson at two o’clock,” he ordered, trying to sound stern, as he always had to remind himself to do when she looked so vulnerable.

“Why?” she asked, biting her lip on the question the moment it left her mouth.

“Because I want you to.” She opened her mouth and closed it, visibly fighting the urge to ask something else. “Tell Louise you’re doing it to spare the life of whatever unfortunate costume you’ll be in the process of destroying,” he answered her unspoken query, drawing a perturbed smile from his pupil.

“I will be there,” Christine agreed with a nod.

“Do not be late.” Erik wondered what she was thinking that made her look so hesitant and nervous.

“Angel…” her voice was unsure. He opened his mouth to reprimand her for her question before she spoke it. “Will you sing to me?”

Erik froze, silent. Perhaps she would think he had left. Perhaps that was why regret was dancing in her eyes now. Erik sighed; he had told himself he would not cause her more pain.

“Close your eyes,” he whispered and she obeyed. He watched her take a deep breath in awe as he began to sing gently from the dark. The song was one she would never have heard before, a melody of his own composing; a serenade born deep in the shadows that sang of light. The lyrics were not a language she could know, but she didn’t need the words to understand.

He sang to her as she lay back on he bed and he drifted a step closer. The look on her face was something like intoxication or ecstasy, Erik could not say for sure. He could not even bear to name his own feelings as he watched, more certain with each note that he could no longer go on like this.

~

“I believe, Madame, that the note is an E flat…” the répétiteur mumbled. Carlotta sighed heavily. The little man was visibly sweating as he crouched at the keys of the small piano in her dressing room.

“I have told you and half-a-dozen other incompetents that this piano is out of tune,” she declared.

“You did indeed, Signora, just yesterday,” Ledour agreed and Carlota graced him with a smile. “Shall I alert the management?”

“No, I will discuss it with Monsieur Debienne personally,” she sneered. It would do to have some distraction from Debienne’s incessant talk of ghosts and money. Of course even talk of phantoms was better than his moaning about his wife and never having taken a mistress before. Such whining had become tiresome a year ago.

“Ma – Signora,” the répétiteur prompted shakily, “shall we continue…from the coda…” Carlotta gave the man another bored glare. He avoided her eyes and began to play intently, giving her a few bars before her entrance. She took a deep breath, raising her shoulders and preparing herself to sing. She opened her mouth just as the sound of a scream pealed from the halls. Ledour and the répétiteur jumped, the latter crashing his hands over the keys and making a terrible racket.

“For God’s sake!” Carlotta cried. She spun to the door and wrenched it open in time to see a girl with stringy black hair hurling herself down the hall, covering her face as if hell itself were at her heels.

“No, no! Please!” the girl was howling as she raced by, thankfully in the direction of the stage and hopefully the exit. If the idiot was at the next rehearsal, Carlotta would be certain to make sure it was her last. She rolled her eyes and slammed the door shut again.

“Where do they find these little fools?” she asked in disgust, not expecting an answer. “Honestly, the Opera must lose more employees to all this…” she waved her hands in the air, “nonsense than to anything else. If I ever find this ghost…”

“Madame! You should not…” the répétiteur covered his mouth as Carlotta reeled to face him, her fury rising at such impertinence. “Should not trouble yourself with such concerns!”

“Indeed, Signora,” Ledour stammered, his hands fidgeting nervously in front of him, trying to hide that he was making a sign against the evil eye.

“I don’t trouble myself,” Carlotta declared coldly. “Now, shall we finish this chore before the entire Opera goes running home to their mothers?”

The répétiteur swallowed weakly and began to play.

~

Christine stepped out of the lesson and into the hall, her mind lingering on the melody of Juliet’s Waltz and her angel’s compliment on how well she had sung rather than the miserable mess she had made of the hem she had been trying to repair. Louise had almost seemed relieved to let her leave for a while. At least she had avoided sewing the garment onto her own skirt like last week…

“Was that you singing in there?”

Christine jumped back and spun toward the source of the question: A middle-aged, middle height, middle class man with an oversized moustache was staring at her with pronounced interest.

“Yes, sir…” she murmured, embarrassed and wondering if she was about to be fired again. “I didn’t mean to disturb anyone.”

“On the contrary, Mademoiselle, you didn’t disturb me at all.” Christine looked back at him with fresh confusion. “I was just wondering who was singing; I didn’t recognize the voice. You’re not in the chorus. Surely you’re not a new principal?” he ventured.

Christine let out an irrepressible laugh at such a foolish idea but quickly covered her mouth.

“I didn’t think so. You certainly don’t look like one, or even a student for that matter.” The man sighed, as he looked her over critically.

“No, sir…I mean, yes, I’m not part of the company,” Christine confessed, fidgeting with her stupid, dingy dress.

“Then what on earth are you doing here?” the man asked, through his tone was not angry.

“I work here, sir,” Christine answered and his bushy eyebrows went up.

“But you said you weren’t in the company?”

“I-I work in the costume shop, sir,” she explained and his eyes grew wide. “But I was up here…practicing.” She realized how absurd it sounded the moment she gave the excuse.

“A seamstress? And you can sing like that?” the man muttered in disbelief. He seemed to be looking through her, a swift progression of thoughts racing through his eyes. “Well, not anymore,” he piped, suddenly smiling at her. Christine’s heart stopped. She was going to be fired.

“What?”

“Do you know who I am, girl?” The man seemed a bit insulted as she shook her head. “My name is Gerard Gabriel. I am the director of the Opera chorus. That’s why I know everyone’s voice and didn’t know yours.”

“Oh…” Her heart still didn’t seem to be functioning.

“Well, it’s strange you see. We lost a singer just this morning; frightened off as usual,” Gabriel explained. “I was just on my way to tell the managers, but then I heard you. Quite convenient, isn’t it?” Christine blinked in bewilderment. “I mean, isn’t it lucky that I should find that girl’s replacement just as I was going to complain about losing her?”

“What?” Christine gasped.

“I’m hiring you for the chorus, if you like,” he smiled causally. “I’m assuming if you work here, and if you practice like that, you must already know at least the tunes to some of the chorus parts.”

“Every note,” Christine whispered and the man puffed up in satisfaction.

“Perfect then,” he laughed. “Be in the rehearsal hall tomorrow at ten; we’re working on the new production of Rigoletto, you’ll have an easy first day.”

“Alright,” Christine stammered, still blinking in wonder and nodding without thinking.

“Very well then…what did you say your name was, just so I can have it on the list for tomorrow?”

“Christine Daaé.” Gabriel nodded, satisfied, and looked her over one more time.

“I shall certainly be interested to see what other surprises you have in store for us, Mademoiselle Daaé. I hope your luck holds out.” With another curt nod the chorus master turned on his heel and continued down the yellow and red hall, obviously pleased with himself.  
Christine collapsed against the wall.

What had just happened?

“Luck indeed,” the angel murmured in her ear. Christine felt herself begin to smile, then grin, then laugh, sinking down to the floor, tears escaping the corners of her eyes. She did not know what she had done to be worthy of such blessing and she did not care.

~

“I said you could take ten minutes and you take an hour?” Louise scolded the moment Christine skulked back into the workshop.

The girl flinched and opened her mouth to make an excuse.

“Indeed! First, you come with some silly story about getting rest and then you rest for a damn hour. I was worried about you, girl.”

“Louise, I’m fine…” she mumbled guiltily. “And I’m sorry,”

“You’d better be,” Louise snapped. “If it was anyone but you…” she added darkly, shaking her head and beginning to turn away.

“Louise, wait!” Christine cried.

“What is it now?” Louise asked tiredly.

“I can’t work here any more,” Christine mumbled and looked down.

“What!?”

Half the girls in the room looked up in surprise, and the other half murmured knowingly.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t,” Christine reiterated softly.

“But why? Surely you’ve haven’t found another job! No one in Paris would be daft enough to hire you as a seamstress.” Christine bit her lip and Louise read her silence. “You did get another job! Was that what your little break was for? Well, out with it. What lucky employer’s snagged such a prize?”

“Well,” Christine began tentatively, “I’ll actually still be working at the Opera.” Louise raised an eyebrow. “It’s just that I’ll be wearing the costumes now. I’m going to be singing in the chorus!” Christine nearly jumped at words.

Louise’s mouth fell open in shock.

“You?” Camille demanded from where she had been eavesdropping.

“And why not?” Louise snapped, regaining herself. “The girl hums more than she talks! I’m just not clear on how anyone heard you though…”

“The director of the chorus heard me practicing. That’s what I was doing by the way…not, um, resting,” Christine explained and raising her thin shoulders shyly in defense.

“Practicing?” Elaine parroted, earning a searing look from Louise.

“And a director just happened to hear you?” Michelle added her voice to the questions. Louise shook her head.

“You, have the strangest luck of anyone I’ve ever met, girl,” Louise sighed. “Shall we measure you for your new costumes now?” Christine smiled, taking in the looks around her.

“It’s not luck, Louise, you know that,” Christine reminded her.

~

Erik was waiting in the dark hiding place beneath the mangers’ office. It was perhaps the most useful secret in the Opera for maintaining his power. From there he could hear every word Debienne and Poligny said. The trap door above him was of particular use. Without it leaving his notes for the managers or plucking whatever he wanted from their office would have been much more difficult, since they always were so careful to lock the door. Despite every precaution the men took though, the Phantom’s missives would always arrive on their desks in the morning, written in blood red ink. He had always enjoyed that little macabre touch on his notes from the grave.

Erik was glad of the rest in the small, dark space after a particularly busy day. It had been quite a challenge, yet very satisfying to drive the black-haired soprano out before the clock even struck noon.

It had taken some time before her departure had been noted, since the front entrance of the Opera by which she had so swiftly exited had been left curiously unattended. Gabriel had been beside himself to lose another member of his troupe. Luckily however the director had taken his accustomed route at the same hour he always did on Tuesdays, when he would inevitably drag himself to the mangers to complain about something.

Erik wished he could have seen Christine’s face when Gabriel had hired her. He had caught a glimpse of her from the shadows as she had raced back to the costumers’ and then he had watched her tell Louise her great news. Her smile had been brighter than gold.

“Would you like to hear today’s damage?” Poligny asked Debienne as he entered the office. His heavy footsteps echoed above Erik as he approached the desk above the trap door. The floor and carpet above muffled the sound of a disgruntled sigh.

“Good God, how many?” Debienne groaned.

“Four: one soprano, two carpenters and one doorman,” Poligny recited bitterly.

“In _one day_?” Debienne gasped.

Erik smiled as he imagined the oily, bespectacled man’s expression of frustration and horror.

“Well, Gabriel says he’s already replaced the soprano, apparently at the cost of a seamstress,” Poligny sighed. Erik heard the creak of the leather chair above him as the large man settled at his desk.

“I don’t know how much more of this madness I can take, Guillame,” Debienne sighed.

“I know, Herbert,” Poligny agreed. Erik was not sure, but the old man seemed to be experiencing a genuine moment of despair. How quaint.

“Did you say two carpenters?” Debienne asked absently.

Erik was glad of it – he had not been involved with the carpenters personally but did not doubt that he was somehow responsible for their departure.

“Well, I had to let them go actually…” Poligny muttered. “I found out that they talked to that horrible foreigner, as if we need more legends making it outside the walls.”

Erik tensed in the dark. His instinct had been right.

“Damn it, I thought we made it clear he was not to be allowed inside the building again!”

“He must have gotten past when the doorman left,” Poligny excused himself. “That poor man, I hear they found him wandering by the Louvre, muttering something about skulls and lassos.”

“We will make sure the replacement knows who to keep out,” Debienne replied, unsympathetic. “We have enough devils to keep us busy already.” Erik smiled grimly in the dark. It had taken years to train his managers, but they certainly did not disappoint him in certain ways.

~

Julianne swore quietly under her breath as she rushed through the empty halls. It helped warm her in the deepening cold and distract her from the fact that her mother was going to be furious with her for being late. She could not help that so many dancers needed dressers after the rehearsal. Everyone had been terribly jumpy and talkative after the news of the latest soprano being driven mad, or whatever the story was; it changed hourly.

Julianne braced herself and swore again as she reached the level of the costume shop. There was always a certain thrill about walking alone down here that she tried to tell herself she didn’t enjoy. The sound of footsteps still made her jump.

Julianne caught her breath as a girl emerged from the coatroom by the costumer’s, carrying a candle and smiling wistfully. She didn’t notice Julianne at all as she turned away from her down the hall. Not surprising, it was the girl her mother had said was so odd, the one who had seen the ghost…

Julianne gasped as. A shadow coalesced from the wall and blotted out her view of the girl. Julianne knew that silhouette, everyone did. She froze in terror as the shadow paused and turned slowly towards her.

The ghost’s eyes did indeed glow and burn in the darkness, full of cold malice beyond the white mask. He regarded her before raising a long, pale finger to his lips. Julianne gave a panicked nod, neither understanding nor caring why she should be silent and let him follow the girl who pitied him.

He turned without a sound and followed after the girl, disappearing into the shadows like he was part of them. Julianne turned heel and ran, more than happy to find a different way out of the building. By the time she burst out into the December night on the Rue de Scribe, she was flushed and panting.

“What on earth happened to you!” her mother demanded instantly upon seeing her daughter. She had been waiting with a clutch of employees as the gaslights were lit down the avenues.

“Nothing…” Julianne stammered, smoothing her black hair, “just got caught up with some of the petit rats. You know how much they all adore me. I didn’t want to worry you, so I rushed.” Her mother gave a very doubtful glare but let it be. “So, any news from your world? Did you hear about the girl who ran out?” Julianne asked, regaining her breath as they walked abreast away from the cursed building.

“In a roundabout way – one of my girls is leaving to replace her!” her mother exclaimed, shaking her head in wonder so that her heavy red bun wavered precariously.

“One of yours? Who?”

“Christine! The strange one.”

Julianne swallowed and tried to keep her face placid.

“The one the ghost likes,” she murmured.

Her mother rolled her eyes.

“Poor thing, doesn’t know what she’s getting into, joining the company,” she lamented as Julianne pulled her shawl tighter around her bony shoulders. “Soon there will be patrons after her and other singers ready to stab her in the back.”

“The ghost won’t like that,” Julianne remarked and her mother gave her a curious look. “I mean, yes. The poor thing.” Julianne sighed and watched it turn to mist in the chill night air. The first day of December and already it was near freezing. They were all bound for a cold winter this year.

~

Christine was instantly overwhelmed when she entered the cavernous rehearsal hall. It was much larger than the costume workshop and was filled with chairs enough for the entire chorus of sixty singers. She tried to watch the others for a clue as to what to do, but became distracted just observing.

She could readily tell the sopranos from the mezzos and altos – each had a distinctly well-dressed, entitled look to them, like a favorite cat that knew how lovely it was. The lower voices had a more cynical, careful gleam in their eyes, though they still had a hardness and determination about them that made Christine self-conscious of her own awkwardness. The men were fascinating as well. The tenors had a rather distracted but flirtatious air, and smiled easily. The baritones kept to themselves or concentrated on ignoring the attentions of the sopranos and the basses just glowered, happy to go unnoticed.

“Ah, here is my newest charge,” Gabriel called out from the front of the room. She made her way to the director, trying not to make a scene as she waded through the thicket of chairs.

Gabriel had her sign her name to a register of employees and explained how she’d be paid and how much (the amount almost made Christine blush), where she would get her costume and how someone would help her dress and get made up, gave her music, showed her where she would sit and clarified the blocking for performances. “Sheep could do it, just follow the crowd and stay on pitch and you’ll be fine,” he explained derisively. All of this knowledge was passed on in what Christine felt was one breathless sentence. “Are you ready to begin?”

“Oh, yes…” Christine answered after a pause, surprised he had actually asked her a question.

“Good then, take your place.” She took her assigned seat at the end of a row of sopranos and examined her new trove of music as she waited to begin.

“You must be the replacement for Justine.” Christine looked up to see a caramel haired woman sinking into the next chair. She had a voluptuous figure and was extremely pretty; an effect enhanced by the fact she held herself with a certain confidence that Christine was sure would be regarded as alluring. Her brown eyes were knowing, but kind.

“I guess so,” Christine murmured in reply, distracted by the rich, brown silk of the woman’s dress.

“Adele DuVal,” she introduced herself, extending a hand to Christine.

“Christine Daaé,” she replied, taking the proffered hand.

“You look nervous. Don’t be,” Adele advised, surveying the buzzing room.

A baton clicked on a podium and the company quickly came to attention. Christine was surprised at how easy it was to sing in the mass of people. She knew the music already and no one criticized her or reprimanded her as they had whenever she had sung in groups at the conservatoire. She was doing well for once and she adored it. All too soon the music ended.

“You’re not bad at all,” Adele commented as she drew her shawl about her. “Too bad you don’t look the part. Where did you get that thing anyway?”

“I didn’t think it was that bad…” Christine mumbled, lying a bit. She had at least had the horrid gray rag washed among all the other laundry in the costumer’s, which she had thought improved it.

“I’m sure it was fine a few dozen years ago. Darling, if you wish to succeed here, you have to fit in. And to do that you will have to look like you belong in the chorus and not in the gutter.”

“Oh…”

Adele gave her a smile that was both indulgent and pitying.

“I can show you where to go to find something if you like, not too expensive,” she offered. “Perhaps before rehearsal tomorrow, we won’t be needed until afternoon.”

“I would appreciate that,” Christine accepted, counting the money she had been saving in her mind and hoping it was enough.

“Meet me by the Madeline at ten then,” Adele smiled then sauntered off. Christine smiled to herself. Life as a chorus girl would be very different from that as a seamstress.

“Now, you’ll need to have a dressing room, most everything is full,” a woman’s voice broke into her thoughts from behind her.

Christine recognized her as the woman Gabriel had indicated was in charge of the more mundane aspects of the chorus member’s lives – their costumes and dressing arrangements and such. Christine nodded, though the woman had not been waiting for it.

“We had the girl you’re replacing in a very odd one all on her own, rather out of the way; would you mind that?”

“I wouldn’t mind at all.”

“Good, I’ll show you that then,” the matron, who Christine believed was called Patrice, replied immediately.

She briskly led Christine to the level where most of the dressing rooms were situated, a floor below the stage, through twisting, dark halls and finally to a lonely door emblazoned with the number thirteen which Patrice unlocked. As the matron lit the gaslights Christine was struck by the huge size of the room. Half the vastness was a deception however: a single, huge mirror took up almost an entire wall to the left of the door. Beyond the massive mirror, the room was quite ordinary; outfitted with a wardrobe, vanity, dresser, screen and even a modest couch. There was a small, curtained off little room beside the vanity as well, perhaps meant for storage.

“Perfect for a prima donna, eh?” the woman asked. “Except no prima donna wants it. They say it’s haunted. I tell them: the whole place is haunted. I think they dislike it because it’s so far from the stage that their admirers can’t find them easily. Well, I’ll leave you to it.” Patrice nodded, gave Christine a key and dismissive look as she left, closing the door behind her.

Christine looked around as she set down her things. The state of the room gave the impression that someone had left very hastily. An examination of the wardrobe, dresser and vanity revealed that the previous occupant had not only taken no pains to clean the room, but had taken nothing at all. Christine was delighted to find a thick winter shawl, a good quantity of stage make up and a few bottles of perfume.

Christine’s eyes strayed to the massive mirror again and she stared at the pale girl reflected in the glass. There was something about the mirror that drew her to it; a feeling like her reflection was truly staring back at her. She closed her eyes and still the sensation of observation persisted. She knew the sensation well by now, but there was something so odd about feeling his gaze in a room with no shadows to hide him.

“Will this light be sufficient?” her angel’s heavenly voice asked wryly.

Christine smiled broadly. All that trouble just so she could read her music better? It was rather flattering.

“Quite,” Christine whispered, staring in fascination at the glass.

“You will come here for your lessons, unless I tell you otherwise.” His voice seemed to come from the mirror itself, as if her reflection was speaking.

“As you command, Angel,” she murmured, drifting closer to the mirror. He could have told her to sing on the roof and she would have obeyed. She raised a hand to the glass, watching her reflection make the same gesture. “Thank you,” she sighed, overcome by the feeling of him. She wished she could be more poetic; tell him more fully what he meant to her, what she felt, but she could not find the words.

“For what?” her angel asked, quiet and curious.

“Everything.”


	7. Separate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christine learns her place in the Opera, as Erik's feeling begin to become...troublesome.

Erik paced back and forth in the pitch black behind the mirror. He had installed the two-way glass years ago, when he had first come to the Opera, before the building was even open to the public. It was a window and a door that concealed one of the most direct, routes to the lake below and for this reason he had never let a singer keep the dressing room for more than a few months. Now it was the perfect hiding place for him to instruct his strange pupil. The only danger would come if she put out the light on her side of the mirror while illumination remained on his; then she would be able to see through the deception. At the moment the dressing room was entirely dark as he waited for Christine’s arrival.

Erik had not dared to test how quiet the mirror was the night before, as Christine had slept on the little chaise. He had been surprised when she lay down to rest after her lesson and by the realization that it was he who would have to leave, not her.

Of course he hadn’t left.

  
He had watched her sleep from beyond the mirror to test the theory that a barrier between them would end his lurid, delusional fantasies. After mere moments he had been disappointingly appalled that he was not consoled by the glass separating them, but instead missed even the possibility of drawing close to her. She had slept as content and innocent as a child. He had not slept more than an hour.

Erik stopped his pacing. This _was_ better. From here he could focus on what was important, and that was her voice. He was shaping a great diva for his opera. She would sweep away that cow Carlotta and all of Paris would adore her, and without even knowing it, him as well.

_And then what_? A harsh voice asked inside his head and he began to pace again. It didn’t matter. When she was a great star he would be rid of this foolish fascination. Then the longing would stop. He paused again. Putting the mirror between them was supposed to have done that. There was still a chance it would, wasn’t there?

Erik turned in excitement as the door on the other side of the mirror opened and Christine and faint gaslight rushed in. It was not yet time for their lesson, he knew that; he had only arrived early in the hope of seeing her for longer. He smiled as she lit the gaslights and the golden illumination filled the room.

She was carrying a large package, which was curious, and she seemed quite happy. Again he reprimanded himself for the foolish pleasure at seeing her happy and wondering if it was in some way his doing. She paused, looking toward the mirror. Could she feel him there? She seemed to shiver and shrug at the same time, and then turned away to tear away the paper from her package.

She had finally bought a new dress, Erik saw with satisfaction. It was blue, with a modest neckline and long sleeves with white lace at the ends. The garment was not extravagant, but it was a vast improvement from the rag she wore. The color would certainly suit her better than drab gray. She glanced at the mirror again and then away. It was almost as if she didn’t want to look at her reflection in the old dress.

Erik’s thoughts stopped abruptly.

Christine had turned her back to the mirror demurely as she began to unbutton her old dress. He knew what she was doing but could not really believe she was doing it. Slowly, the garment came loose and finally slipped from her shoulders and to the floor. Her undergarments were modest and plain. She wore a faded white camisole, but no fashionable corset or bustle. It was not the clothing that mattered of course; it was the clear outline of her fragile, soft body beneath the fabric; the exposed skin of her arms, legs and back.

Erik held his breath, trying to force his eyes closed and failing. She turned and for a second the roundness of her breasts was visible through the thin material, as were the shadows of her nipples, taut in the chill. He tired to perfect and preserve the image of her body, knowing the memory would not be quite as beautiful when he returned to it in the night. Blessedly she took up the new dress and moved towards the dressing screen, sparing her watcher further torture.

Erik leaned back against the cold wall; awe and desire twisting inside him like fire. Had she known he could see? No, that was impossible. He could almost hear her thoughts: an angel would never intrude on her modesty. He was not an angel, he reminded himself. He was nothing close to an angel, especially at that moment. He was a foolish, helpless man.

She emerged from behind the dressing screen and regarded her reflection critically, a shy smile playing across her face. Eventually satisfied she turned to her vanity and began to brush out her dark auburn hair, staring at the mirror. It gave Erik the disconcerting impression that she was staring straight at him and he had the sudden urge to hide from her gaze. But it was almost time for their lesson.

He took a deep quiet breath, trying to compose himself into the stern teacher he had to be to survive the next few hours. He took up his violin, which he had brought to substitute for the piano they had lost. He allowed himself one more breath and one more moment in the memory of her skin, and then began to play.

There was a new awe in her face as the music wafted through the room. He had known the instrument would be special to her. Perhaps in her mind her angel was playing her father’s violin. Her eyes remained closed in elation after his air faded to silence. At last she opened her eyes and smiled at the mirror. He stared at her smiling face, framed so beautifully by her loose hair. No one had ever smiled at him like that. Of course, she wasn’t smiling at him, and she would not be smiling if she knew what he had just seen and felt from the shadows.

“Are you ready to begin,” he asked her, trying to sound calm and distant.

“Yes,” she nodded, instantly standing and taking up the appropriate posture.

“Good.” Erik fought back the urge to compliment her new dress. “Breathe,” he commanded.

_Breathe_ , he reminded himself.

 

After more than an hour, they rested. It had been a rapturous lesson but her smile and the beautiful flush in her cheeks brought him the opposite of peace. The moment had come again for him to leave her. He had certainly intruded on her enough for one day. Just the possibility that he could so easily do it again was maddening.

“I suppose that you’ll be getting a room at last, now that you can afford it,” he suggested rather too tersely, suddenly desperate that she should not spend another night in his opera tormenting him.

“Oh…I guess so,” Christine murmured, her face falling. Erik looked down into the shadows, ignoring the instant feeling of guilt.

“It would best if you were not here at night. You must have a real life outside of this place,” he tried again, colder and more unquestioning this time. She visibly flinched at the words and Erik turned away. “In fact, I must insist on it.”

“But…” Christine began then caught herself. “As you wish, Angel,” she surrendered and

Erik wrenched himself away, pushing way the fantasy of sadness in her voice and face. He retreated swiftly into the depths, telling himself to be relieved. By sunset she would be gone. He did not stop until he reached the lake, not realizing until that point that he had been running.

He struggled to breathe in the dank gloom, the memory of her sad eyes alternating with the vision of her body. He ran his hands through the long, black hair that always fell in his face, like another mask, carefully avoiding touching the real mask he wore. She would leave and things would be better. So why was he struck with the desire to let her stay? And even worse: the desire to _make_ her stay?

He threw his hands down and stared into the darkness. It seemed blacker today, compared to the light from beyond the mirror. He tried to calm himself as he poled across the lonely lake, but it was a failure.

Finally in the secure shadows of him home, he sank into a chair by the embers of his fire, letting his head fall into his hands. The sensation of molded leather instead of skin shocked him back to reality. He shuddered, suddenly sick at the memory of his lust. No one that beautiful would ever what a thing like him. And he would not allow himself to want what he could not have.

~

The only person who really noticed Christine arrive at rehearsal was Adele. She was a welcome distraction from Christine’s brooding on why her angel no longer wanted her in his Opera at night. It had been a very entertaining morning with the fellow soprano, Christine mused. Not only had she bought her new blue dress, but Adele had brought one of her older dresses for Christine as well. The dressmaker would be finished altering it in two days.

“I was right, the blue is very good on you,” Adele purred as Christine approached. She herself was stunning in a rich green frock that highlighted her charms. “You’ll be acquiring some proper soprano airs in no time. And some admirers as well, I’m sure,” Adele added with a wink. Christine could not help but laugh at the idea.

“I didn’t think you could spare any,” Christine teased. Adele had been quite free with her tales of romantic intrigue. Perhaps it had been those tales that had inspired her wanton moment in front of the mirror, Christine mused then pushed away the thought. Of course, it might have been that stupid display that had inspired her angel to banish her. The forced separation was not worth the fleeting thrill.

Rehearsal began before Christine could follow the bleak train of thought. She could always take refuge in music; that could not change.

“Adele,” Christine ventured carefully as rehearsal ended hours later and the chorus began to disperse. Adele looked up from where she was artfully arranging her shawl around her shoulders, her eyebrows raised in interest. “Might you know where to find a flat for someone of my means?” Christine asked quickly and recoiled at the strained delicacy of her words. Adele smiled though.

“You mean our means,” Adele corrected jovially. “And girls like us don’t have flats, we’re lucky if we can get a _room_.” Christine’s spirit sank but Adele was already clucking in amusement. “Come with me, little vagabond, I have just the place for you.” Adele placed a friendly arm around Christine’s shoulder.

As they left the Opera, Christine tried to concentrate on Adele’s unceasing train of dialogue instead of on the sensation of leaving the place her angel watched over her. The two sopranos set forth into the fading December light of Paris, down the grand Avenue De L’Opera. The sky above was almost black, threatening heavy rain. Christine told herself this was for the best, as he had said, while Adele told her about when she had come to the Opera, two years before.

“I was singing in a cabaret – can you believe that – one of the very fashionable ones on the Boulevard des Italiennes, and this patron, he said he was a duke or some lord of industry, he heard me and wanted to win me.”

Christine smiled despite herself at how easily Adele admitted something so scandalous. They had turned left onto the Rue Des Petit Champs, and the Opera would no longer be visible if she looked back.

“Well, I wouldn’t just give in, of course. So he worked it out so I could audition at the Opera; I don’t think he realized that I would be singing scenery and he was quite disappointed that his little pet didn’t become more of a star. He did enjoy keeping a chorus girl for a while though, but then he grew bored. I stayed at the Opera after him, though I had to find a place to live besides the rooms he had paid for.”

“He paid for your rooms?” Christine gasped and Adele laughed knowingly, indulgent of her naïveté. They had turned left again, this time off of the round Place des Victoires and on to the Rue de Notre Dame de Victoires.

“I know…some girls like that, but I think it’s always a good idea to keep something of your own. That way they can’t think they own you,” Adele explained and as they passed the large Notre Dame de Victoires basilica. “It forces them to let you into their world, not keep you in a cage. Ah, here we are!”

Christine could not distinguish the building from any of the other identical structures on the street, except for the large red door. Adele withdrew a key from her pocket and let herself in.

“Welcome to Hotel St. Claude, my friend,” Adele grinned with a flourish as she led Christine into the large main parlor of the boarding house. There were several other women their age lounging before the fire, and one tired looking matron overseeing the quiet scene from an over-stuffed chair. “Madame Valerius!” The older woman rose slowly, tottering towards them without much visible interest.

“New girl?” Madame Valerius grumbled.

Christine was astounded by the strong scent of cheap wine on her breath.

“We have room, don’t we? What’s-her-name that was by me left last week didn’t she?” Adele asked hopefully.

“Oh yes, though you know she’ll be back in three months after whatever artist it is now has found a new muse,” Madame Valerius snorted.

“Well, Christine here needs a room now,” Adele pushed.

Madame Valerius surveyed Christine. Her hair was gray but still piled on top of her head in the fashionable manner, with ample bangs obscuring her wrinkled forehead.

“Two francs a week? And a sous for supper, half that for breakfast.” Christine nodded hesitantly and Madame Valerius grimaced in agreement. “We’ll find you a key then, supper is usually at eight. Adele will show you the room, it’s right by hers – if she remembers where that is.” The old woman waddled back to her place by the fire without another word.

“Come on,” Adele muttered, taking Christine by the elbow to lead her upstairs. They passed a girl with dark blonde hair on the staircase that gave them a rather sour look and Adele laughed. “Ignore her, she’s just jealous,” Adele told Christine. “She knows that if you’re with me, you’re bound for all sorts of adventures, especially with this room.” 

They reached the second level, turned left, and came quickly to a door, also on the left.

“Here you are,” Adele announced and let Christine into the little room first.

“Why should this room be so special?” Christine asked, genuinely curious.

The room was barely the size of her dressing room at the Opera, but it was possessed of a real bed, which would, Christine had to admit, be quite a luxury. There was also a wardrobe, a washing bowl and pitcher on a little table, and a shard of mirror and few faded pictures pasted on to the walls. Everything was as washed out and drab as Christine’s old dress.

“Well, as you can see, it will be only you in here, so you can have visitors without alarming anyone. And it’s right by the stairs, so it’s easy to come and go without being noticed,” Christine raised an eyebrow at Adele, trying not to be too shocked by what the soprano was implying. “And I’m next door and have terrible hearing at night,” Adele added with a lusty wink.

“I don’t know what you think I’ll be doing…” Christine began to protest, blush rising in her cheeks.

“I don’t think anything, my friend, I just know that Valerius is asleep in her wine bottle by ten,” Adele laughed. “Come, I’ll introduce you around before dinner.”

Christine left her shawl and bag, following Adele. It was at least better than being left alone in the cold little room with only thought of the angel she would not feel watching her that night.

~

Erik moved through the darkness without a sound. It was better to see if Christine had really left than to brood in the empty silence of his home about nothing. She had seemed to take his admonition to heart, but it would be quite good luck for her to find a place so quickly. What if she was still there, disobeying him by no fault of her own? Perhaps she was worried at that very moment that she would displease him.

Her dressing room was dark and lifeless; he knew before he even stepped through the open mirror. Erik shivered in the emptiness. As he walked from her dressing room through the deserted Opera, through quiet halls and cavernous rooms, his student’s absence was palpable. He had not realized until now how every corner had become so full of her.

He wandered to her prop room and found it just as black and uninhabited. Her scent and warmth and the sound of her breath were gone from the air entirely. He forced himself not to linger in the place that had been hers. It was useless. She was gone, just as he had wanted.

_It’s nights like these when the emptiness you left behind is the worst, when it fills me up, and there is nothing I can do to stop it_. He tried to shut out the thought of her, the longing – not to touch or to hear her voice or even to see her – just to know she was close. He had to go somewhere, anywhere where he could at least pretend she was closer. Somewhere he might feel like an angel or even a man again, the way she made him feel when she smiled. He did not want to remain a ghost, haunting the memory of her steps.

 

The rain was falling hard and a clap of thunder shook the panes of Christine’s new window over the Rue De Notre Dame de Victoires. She had pushed her new bed right next to the window to be closer to the storm. She savored the chill from the pouring rain, remembering the rain on the day she had come to the Opera and how she had huddled by the window in the storeroom. That was the first night he had heard her, she was sure of it.

She pressed her cheek to the glass. She wanted to look at the sky and pretend she could see the Opera or look to heaven and see her angel’s eyes in her mind. If she was quiet and believed, she could hear his voice beyond the sound of the rain.

She had a home of her own at last, however small and sordid, she told herself for the hundredth time. She should be happy, but she longed for shadows and the smell of dust and forgotten things. She shivered as another thunderclap peeled through the night. Where was her angel now? Was he in heaven, or somewhere in the darkness of the Opera? Were those the same place? Why didn’t he want her there?

She took a shaking breath, realizing she had begun to weep. She wished she could wash away her tears in the rain. She wished her angel could be there to wrap her in comforting arms. How could she long so deeply for someone she could never touch? She knelt on the bed and opened the window carefully. Her hand trembled as she reached out into the rain and let it fall onto her skin, imagining it was an angel’s touch.

 

Erik stood on the roof of the Opera, completely exposed to the storm. Lightning flashed and he could see over all of Paris. Where was Christine in this colossal city? He had left his familiar cloak inside and now his black clothes were soaked completely through. He shuddered in the cold, surprised that he could still feel such a sensation at all.

At least the rain pounding down on him, freezing him and drowning him, was something. He could not touch her, but he could at least feel the rain. His hand shaking, he removed his mask, turning his face to the sky. Only the night would see his face, only the storm would touch it, never her.

Erik wondered if he could stand in the rain until dawn, when light would drive him back to the shadows where he belonged. The gaslights of the city below barely penetrated the darkness far above as he let the rain kiss his hideous skin, running over the scars and shame and horror. He wished the rain would wash away everything he was: his face, his past, the darkness. He wished the ghost would drown, leaving only a man behind who did not need to pretend. He closed his eyes on the thought, telling himself that it was only rain on his face, not tears.

 

Christine knelt on the bed as she opened the window further. The wind blew the cold rain onto her face and the exposed skin of her chest and shoulders.

_You will catch cold_ , her teacher’s voice reprimanded sternly in her mind. She didn’t care. She didn’t care what he said was best or safe or what she needed. She wanted him. She felt the rain drip over her skin as she let the storm embrace her, imagining that it was heaven.

“Goodnight, Angel,” she whispered, trembling from the cold and finally surrendering to reason. She shut the window and sank into the coarse blankets. She curled into herself, still wet and shivering. It was only an echo, but she swore she had felt him for a second in the rain. Perhaps not him, she corrected herself sadly, but the sense that somewhere, he too watched the night sky, dreaming.

 

~

Julianne leaned against the wall by the open window and took a deep breath of cool morning air, fresh with the scent of rain. The domed dance studios that flanked the Opera were always so warm when filled with three-dozen young ladies prancing and practicing in the early hours. The anemic tinkling of the piano finally stopped and the gaggle of adolescents in tulle broke apart.

The young women dispersed into small groups to chatter and gossip, even as a crop of older dancers began to arrive for their own practice. Julianne caught the eye of one of the new arrivals and held up the package she had been waiting to deliver.

“Well, this is a surprise,” Jammes smiled warily as she approached.

“You asked me to see it was mended, I thought you would want is as soon as possible,” Julianne replied with a casual shrug as she handed her package to the dancer. “Red is such a pretty color on you, I would hate to think of you missing it for too long.”

The petit dancer blushed deeply. “Thank you, Julianne,” she muttered and fidgeted with the deep blue bow at the back of her dark gold locks.

“Now that little ornament will never do,” Julianne chided, catching the ribbon between her fingers and looking into Jammes’ eyes. “I’ll have to find you a red one to match,” Julianne continued warmly. “You will have to show me the full effect of course. I can’t wait to see it.”

Jammes’ cheeks grew even darker.

“Jammes, don’t dawdle!” another dancer with blonde hair much lighter than Jammes’ reprimanded, rushing by.

“Be quiet and mind your own business!” Jammes snapped back and returned her attention to Julianne. “Honestly, that little fool gets moved to the front of her row and thinks she’s the prima ballerina. And we all now how she got the position.”

“I thought LaRoche wasn’t…”

“Oh no, not that,” Jammes corrected Julianne quickly. “Her mother is a concierge for box five.”

“Oh, well then, that does explain some things.” Julianne agreed darkly, glancing again at the other dancer who was now stretching rather self-consciously at the barre. “I probably should be going.”

“You don’t want to stay and watch?” Jammes asked with a pout and Julianne suppressed a wicked grin.

“Well, I guess I have nowhere else to go,” she sighed and Jammes’ face lit up. “And I do like to watch.” The dancer gave a small jump and squeezed Julianne’s hand excitedly.

As the older dancers assembled in three perfect rows and the piano began to play again, Julianne retook her place by the window. She watched as the dancers rose onto pointe and began to move gracefully over the scuffed floor. Jammes and her row leaned back, their arms extending elegantly over their heads and Jammes caught her eye.

It was all Julianne could do not to wink.

~

“You’re early,” Erik noted cautiously when Christine stumbled into the dressing room. He could not be too cross with her of course, he had been waiting there for hours, hoping she would do just this.

“I’m sorry, I know you wanted me to stay away…” Christine protested meekly as she lit the gaslights with shaking hands.

Erik felt as if he was still standing in the rain again, frozen and aching. He _had_ hurt her.

“No, Christine, oh no,” he protested before he could stop himself. “I only thought you would be…happier to have some place of you own. Didn’t you enjoy your new home?”

Christine was looking at her hands with a guilty expression. “No,” she answered dejectedly, “I didn’t.”

“Why? Surely you must be happy with such independence,” Erik argued, fighting back a ridiculous hope that was nipping at his mind like a persistent dog.

“Because, I missed this place…I missed you, Angel.”

Erik held his breath, not believing that he had heard her say such a thing aloud.

“I don’t want independence. I want you.”

Erik watched her plaintive face, trying to understand the simple words.

“I missed you too,” he whispered gently, against his better judgment.

She smiled tentatively, light reigniting in her eyes. She never lit up like that for anyone else, never smiled like that when she was not near him.

“You did?” she asked in amazement. If he didn’t know better, he would have thought she was blushing.

“Yes, very much, though I had not expected to.” She sighed, her body visibly relaxing in relief and smiled with such light that he almost looked away.

“I thought that you didn’t want me here anymore…that you’d tired of me, or I had done something to disappoint you,” she murmured to the mirror.

“I could never grow tired of you, Christine,” he consoled her, moved to total honesty by the look on her face. Well, not total honesty, but the closest he could manage. “If this is where you want to be, I shall not keep you from it. Stay wherever you wish, at night or during the day, my Opera is entirely yours.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, finally looking down. Erik wanted her to look back, to pretend again that she saw him. After the pain of a night without her close, her misguided reverence was intoxicating.

“As long as you sing for me, everything is yours,” he whispered, darkness edging his voice and thoughts again.

“Yes, my angel,” Christine promised automatically.

“Sing for me now, Christine,” he commanded through the glass that protected her, wanting nothing more than to hear the voice that belonged to him.

“Only for me.”

~

“It took three policemen just to get him out of the Tuileries,” Charles muttered quietly to the group of singers. “And more than that to cart him off to the madhouse,” he added darkly.

Adele rolled her eyes, the only one unimpressed with the latest rumor. She had never cared for ghost stories as a child and was utterly sick of them as an adult.

“Oh, be quiet you great oaf,” Jeanette muttered, visibly upset.

“What, are you afraid he’ll hear us and run you lot out onto the street screaming too?” Adele smirked and Charles gave her a glare, petulantly throwing back his lustrous chestnut hair.

“You should not speak ill of the ghost!” a small voice chided from outside the circle of singers.

They turned as one to regard the small dancer who had spoken, a pretty thing with wide blue eyes and blonde hair. She looked terrified to have actually been heard.

“Do you think we’re idiots, little rat?” Jeanette snapped and the dancer flinched.

“Well, she is a ballerina…” Adele purred and the girl’s shoulders drew closer to her ears.

“Adele, be nice.” Adele turned with a smile to see Christine approaching from the wings, looking far better rested than when she had seen her the day before.

“Well there you are! That was quick work, my friend. Not that too many people missed you last night,” Adele teased, forgetting the dancer. Christine’s eyes widened first in confusion then in delightfully scandalized shock.

“Oh, God, Adele! I wasn’t anywhere like that,” Christine protested, glancing embarrassedly at the other singers. They had lost interest long before however. “I was here.”

“Well, that’s disappointing,” Adele pouted and gave Christine a wink.

“You were here last night you mean? Alone?” It was the little dancer again, lingering for some reason. “Are you insane?”

“I’ve been told I am enough times to start wondering,” Christine replied with a shrug and Adele laughed. The little dancer just stared at Christine, blinking in confusion. “I didn’t actually mean that,” Christine reassured the ballerina with a tentative smile. “Mostly.”

“Oh, well, neither did I,” the dancer muttered. “I’m sure you’re just very brave.”

“She certainly is,” Adele remarked, growing bored and moving away toward Jeanette and Charles. “I’ll leave you two to your ghost stories.”

 

“Don’t mind her,” Christine told the blonde dancer, trying to be comforting. “She’s really quite nice.”

“She doesn’t respect the ghost like she should,” the ballerina declared.

“You seem to have quite a high opinion of him,” Christine remarked carefully. The dancer glanced over both shoulders and leaned towards Christine.

“Well, he’s…helped my mother and me,” she explained, her voice hushed. “She’s the concierge of box five, that’s the ghost’s private box you know, and I think he had me promoted to leader of my row, to please her. He’s always been good to her.” Christine smiled. “Dear me! I’ve been so rude!” the dancer exclaimed, and Christine jumped.

“What?” The girl responded by thrusting out her hand to the confused soprano.

“You’ve been so kind and I haven’t introduced myself. Margaret Giry, but everyone calls me Meg.”

“Christine Daaé,” Christine responded in kind, shaking Meg’s small hand.

“That’s an interesting name. Are you new? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you before,” Meg inquired, letting Christine’s hand go from her surprisingly forceful grip.

“Yes…well, new to the chorus.” Meg cocked her head in interest. “I worked in the costume shop for a month before I got in the chorus.”

“Oh, that’s fascinating. I guess it would explain how a new girl could know about…” Meg paused to find words as a shadow of fear passed over her face, “ _him._ ”

Christine smiled weakly in response. “Let’s hope he’s happy with the performance tomorrow night,” Meg grinned conspiratorially.

A shiver ran up Christine spine at the thought of singing for him before all of Paris.

“Yes, let’s hope,” she murmured. “I am sure he will be listening.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for not updating yesterday. Got lost in Canada, as you do.


	8. Faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christine's first performance on the stage of the paris opera.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very sorry for missing an update on Friday. But fear not, we're doing a double update today! Chapter 9 will by up later!

Erik had given up trying to keep himself away from the stage. He had to admit, though the thought was maddening, that there was nowhere in all of Paris that he would rather be that afternoon other than watching Christine from the shadows above. A false angel watching from a false heaven, he thought with a pained smile. She was easy to find, at least for him. There was a stillness about her amid the chaos of rehearsal that Erik found fascinating. He wished that he could be a bit closer, so he could watch her face as she sang. At least tomorrow he would be able to watch her from his box. The thought made him smile.

His attention strayed from his student now and then, as he took in the little dramas of the rehearsal. It was an old production, so there were no costumes or sets today. Erik was sure that most of the company could make it through this venerable _La Prophete_ in their sleep. Everyone was generally distracted and good humored, using their free time to gossip, flirt or tell ghost stories. Only Carlotta seemed in a particularly foul mood, which was saying a great deal for her. This surprised no one, since Carlotta did not enjoy productions where she was not the lead. 

Erik dared to drop down a bit closer to relish the sight of the diva’s discontent, as well as to see Christine more closely. Christine, and the chorus with her, had completed their final song and were milling about, waiting to be dismissed. She was smiling. It was the subtle, secret smile that she saved only for her angel. She always knew when his eyes were upon her.

Erik felt something inside him tighten as he glanced over the stage; Carlotta too was looking at his pupil, recognition and rage rising in her face. She would not have forgotten the costumer who had insulted her, Erik realized. In his sudden, selfish hurry to place Christine on the stage, had not taken precautions for this. 

The look of malice on the diva’s face was clear even from Erik’s distant perch, thirty feet above. He held his breath, waiting for her to attack, but a terrible, cruel smile was spreading over her face instead as the singers were dismissed. He could not even think about the fact the Christine was being pulled off the stage by a ballet dancer and another singer; all that mattered was Carlotta advancing slyly toward the unwary figure of Gerard Gabriel. 

Erik did not even have to hear the diva’s words. Gabriel’s face was falling in dejection and Carlotta’s smirk was almost unbearable. She patted the mustachioed man on the cheek for good measure then turned to leave with smug satisfaction on her overly made-up face.

Erik moved swiftly as Gabriel made his way off the stage. The man would head to his office first…Erik might have felt sorry for what he was about to do to the good-natured chorus director, if he had cared. Gabriel sighed deeply as he opened the door to his humble office, unknowing of what lurked inside.

“You disappoint me, Gerard,” Erik hissed, his voice cold and dangerous in the darkness. 

The director dropped his key and backed against the wall. Erik took a step from the shadows, allowing Gabriel to see his mask as well as the glow in his eyes.

“What – what have I done?” Gabriel stuttered, pale with absolute fear as he stared at the figure of the ghost. 

“Our terrible diva asked you to dismiss your new chorus member, didn’t she?” 

Gabriel swallowed. His whole was body shaking.

“Yes…how…” he blubbered. “She wanted me to wait though, until just before the performance tomorrow.” 

“How very cruel of her.” Erik took a soundless step closer to the man cowering against the wall. “You will, of course, not do this,” he ordered coolly as the director tried to push his body further against the plaster. 

“You wish me to…to keep the girl?”

“Oh yes. The girl stays here, no matter what the bitch says; but more importantly, I wish you to show where your loyalty lies,” Erik corrected, inclining his head to Gabriel and holding the man’s gaze. “Carlotta will not be here forever, but I will. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir, oh yes!” Gabriel whimpered, nodding vehemently. He looked almost sick.

“Good then,” Erik intoned, no kindness in his voice to match the words. “You should be on your way now, Monsieur Directeur.” Gabriel did not need any further prompting. He tore out of the office as if the devil himself was at his heels. Erik almost laughed.

He waited before making his way to find Christine in her dressing room. He could warn her, just in case. He could tell her that she never needed to worry about such threats, as long as she was his…but her dressing room was empty. Erik leaned against the dark glass on his side of the mirror. He had just saved her, yet again, and she would not know. Instead she had left him once more to face the dark of a night without her.

~

Another night away had not been easy; Christine thought with a sigh as she walked up the Avenue De L’Opera. It had started off in a promisingly enough. She had convinced Adele to give little Meg another chance and then somehow the two had swept Christine with them into the greater world for supper in a small, cramped café nearby. It had been hours later that Meg had explained the animosity between singers and dancers stemmed from the concurrent beliefs that each was the most important kind of artist in the Opera. The dancers were always quick to say, with great pride, that the Paris Opera had always been known more for its ballet than its music. The singers were then quick to point out that the Paris Opera was indeed an _opera_ , so of course it was the singers that were more important. Both had equal disdain for the lowly members of the orchestra.

It had not been until Christine returned to the drafty little room in the Hotel St. Claude that she had realized how strange and unreal the evening had felt, like watching the world through a glass. Nothing outside of the Opera seemed quite real. Or, conversely, everything in the world where her angel could not watch her seemed all too real, mundane, dirty and sordid.

She had finally slept after hours tossing and turning, trying to remember the exact timbre of his voice or the melody of the strange music he sang only for her. She had wanted to get to the Opera early, but Adele had caught her before she could escape. They had gone to fetch her second dress and then it had been time to eat and for more gossip and stories.

Christine was hardly alone by the time she turned off the Avenue De L’Opera onto the Rue Auber. To get to the employee’s entrance it was necessary to walk past the ornate carriage ramp on the west side of the Opera. Tonight the fashionable broughams of the patrons would be lined up two abreast to let out their wealthy, glittering owners and their guests for a night of spectacle and extravagance. From there the lucky few would journey through a glittering salon once intended for the deposed Emperor Napoleon III, and finally into the ravishing grand foyer. Most audience members could barely dream of entering by that route. The regular audience was relegated to the front entrance, beneath the massive columns of the loggia, statutes of muses flanking each arch. Christine and her ilk would need to be content to trudge past the entrance to the stable and on towards the back entrance on the Rue De Scribe.

Past the carriage ramp and the nobility’s entrance, the stables were bustling, since the horses were to be used in the night’s performance. Jean Paul was brushing a beautiful white horse and laughing when Christine peeked in. The horse seemed to be as content and spoiled as a tenor. Jean Paul’s face lit up when he saw her.

“Our little beggar is it? You’ve survived!” he cried out, handing his brush to the second stable hand; a tired and confused looking young man with sandy blonde hair. 

“Yes, Monsieur,” Christine smiled as the round man bounded towards her.

“So Louise has kept you?” 

“Actually I’m in the chorus now.”

“Well, I’ll be damned!” Jean Paul laughed, slapping his thigh and startling both the white horse and his assistant. “I never would have believed that!”

“There are a great deal of things here that one might not believe until they saw them,” Christine countered. “Or heard them,” she added slyly and Jean Paul gave her a suspicious but proud look.

“At this rate soon you’ll be as big a star as César here!” the stable master laughed, returning to stroke the beautiful horse. Christine chose to take that as a compliment.

“Until I see you again, Jean Paul,” Christine nodded and turned to finally make her way into the Opera. 

The gray stone walls and dark wooden door of the back entrance had seemed so ominous to her on the day she had first arrived. Now she felt like she was coming home. Tonight she would sing on the stage once again, and this time every one of the more than two thousand seats would be filled. 

The thought of the performance sent a thrill through Christine as she slunk through the door, giving a nod to the attendant – a wan, hunched man with a wisp of hair and large spectacles who never really talked to anyone. Christine was excited and terrified to sing for her angel beneath the blazing light of the chandelier before all of Paris. She hoped she would not disappoint him. 

The sensation of ghostly eyes watching her came earlier than usual after her entrance to the Opera, Christine noted with a secret smile. Perhaps he had missed her again. Her dressing room was located on the east side of the Opera so that she had to cross beneath or behind the stage to reach it from the popular entrance on the Rue de Scribe. Today it meant she had to pass directly by the dressing rooms of the principals, though she did not think much on that until she heard a familiar cruel voice from the door to dressing room three.

“Ah, the little seamstress…” Carlotta drawled, her undefined accent more pronounced than usual. Christine stilled, keeping her back to the woman. She had been afraid of this.

“Really, I thought you had her fired?” the voice of her little mole-faced attendant Ledour sniffed. Carlotta laughed coldly. 

“Oh yes, well, I will have to talk to the managers about that stupid costume mistress.”

Christine tensed in fury and rounded on the diva. 

Carlotta ignored her glare and continued. “This time though, I think it will stick. Ah, here is our dear chorus master now!” 

Christine felt sick, her anger evaporating in the face of stark fear. Gabriel was trudging down the corridor towards them, looking harried and ashen. 

“Good day, Monsieur Gabriel,” Carlotta grinned. 

Gabriel halted and looked between Carlotta and Christine rather helplessly. 

“Oh yes, Mademoiselle Daaé…Signora,” Gabriel nodded to both of them.

“Monsieur Gabriel, don’t you have something to tell the little seamstress here? I would so like to see this myself.” 

Christine’s hands constricted into fists as she shut her eyes, waiting for the blow.

“No, Signora, I do not think I have anything to say to Mademoiselle Daaé except to wish her good luck for the performance tonight.” Christine’s eyes flew open. Carlotta’s mouth was slack in shock, as was Ledour’s. Gabriel caught her eyes with a deeply meaningful look as he continued. “I’m sure it will be the first of many successful performances for such a promising talent.” 

“Thank you, Monsieur, I’m sure I will not forget it…” Christine murmured with a slight smile. 

The chorus director nodded weakly and continued down the corridor, his pace much quicker now. Carlotta was still gaping at Christine.

“You…how…” the diva stammered furiously.

“I have friends too, Signora,” Christine replied, holding the black-haired diva’s gaze. Carlotta advanced on her.

“That may be, seamstress, but that does not mean this is over,” Carlotta seethed. “You think you re special? You think I haven’t dealt with a hundred other little whores sleeping her way to the stage?” Carlotta continued, each word darker and more poisonous than the last. “You are nothing. You are less than air. Whoever is protecting you now _will_ grow bored with your limited charms soon enough, once they realize how useless you are. They will leave you and then I will personally send you back to the street, you little viper. ” Carlotta gave Christine a final grimace then turned down the same corridor Gabriel had taken, Ledour scampering after her. 

Christine turned the opposite direction and ran. She was not going to her dressing room; it would be too easy for someone like Meg or Adele for even Carlotta to hear her weeping there.

 

Erik was glad of the passage into the prop room since Christine had slammed the door behind her when she had run in, tears already streaking her face. He made his way carefully through the detritus in the dark, pausing at the flare of a match and the flicker of flame. He watched Christine curl into herself on the floor in her small pool of wavering candlelight as she cried. 

“Christine…” he whispered tenderly, coming as close to her as he dared, hidden in the shadows. She looked up at the sound of his voice. “Oh Christine, I wish I could have stopped her.” 

“I know I shouldn’t cry…It’s just…” Christine looked down into her pale hands. 

“What is it?” He sensed Carlotta’s cruel words had touched something much deeper than Christine’s confidence.

“For all my life, my father told me that he would send me an angel one day,” she began softly, as if saying the worlds aloud might shatter them. “When he fell ill he told me each night that he would be there to protect me, that he would watch me and send an angel to guide me when he was gone. But when he died…there was nothing. You didn’t come…and I had a choice.” 

Erik listened, rapt, taking in the sadness and regret that played in her face. 

“Either everything he had ever told me was a lie and there was nothing: nothing to believe in, nothing to live for except the next day. Or…I had done something; I had sinned in some way I didn’t understand and he had abandoned me. He would not have broken his promise without a reason…” Christine choked on a sob, fresh tears springing to her eyes. 

“And now you know he wasn’t lying,” Erik continued for her, the words stinging. 

“And I’m so afraid that whatever I did, I could do it again,” Christine breathed, barely audible. “I don’t know what I would do if…if I lost you.” 

Erik shut his eyes, hoping it would ease the pain. 

“You could never lose me,” he murmured. “You could never disappoint me. Even when you are the greatest diva Paris has ever seen, I will stay with you.” When he finally opened his eyes he found her smiling sadly into the darkness, doubtful and pensive.

“And…” 

“Ask me, Christine.”

“And my father? What if I disappoint him? Is…is he proud of me?” Her voice was as small and timid as a child’s yet the question resounded in Erik’s ears. 

If he told her this lie, there was no turning back. There would never be a chance to touch her, be part of her life as a real man. Erik took a deep breath. There had never been a chance. 

“Your father has always been proud of you, Christine,” he intoned carefully. “He was not disappointed, he was simply waiting for you to come here, to find me. I was waiting for you, just as he asked me.” Erik couldn’t look at her face as he lied; the light in her eyes was too beautiful and terrible to bear. “He cannot speak to you as I can, but he hears you. He has always heard you and he is always with you.” Perhaps it was not all a lie in some sense, Erik thought bitterly. “When you love someone, you carry them in your heart. They can never leave you.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Christine whispered. Erik dared to look at her again. She was as overcome as he had expected and so beautiful. He could not stop himself from smiling weakly.

“When you cannot speak, you must sing,” he reminded her simply. “Sing for him tonight. And sing for me.” 

Christine nodded in resolve, wiping a stale tear from her cheek. He could see the strength inside her rising. She stood from the floor and took her candle, more resolute with each step towards the door.

“Sing for me,” Erik whispered to the dark she left behind, the weight of what he had done crushing his ill used heart. 

~

“Get this filth out of here!” Carlotta screamed, hurling the bouquet of hideous camellias at the wall. Nanette and Ledour ducked and Debienne cowered in the door.

“My dear…” Debienne stuttered, staring down at his suddenly empty hands. “I thought you enjoyed…”

“You were wrong!” she hissed. “Can you do nothing right, you fool? No, leave it!” she screeched at Nanette who was crouching to clear the mess. She spun back to Debienne, advancing on him. “You cannot even stage a decent opera, or control your goddamn directors and you think you can come in here and appease me with some wilted flowers?”

“But, darling I also brought you…” Carlotta snatched the package from the manager’s hands as he pulled it from his pocket. It was clearly a new bauble of some sort, as if she did not have enough jewels. She glanced at the card and her eyes flew wide in rage.

“For my dearest Rachelle!” she screamed and threw the box at his feet. Debienne scrambled after it, gasping in panic. “God, do not tell me you sent my gift to your damn _wife_!”

“I was sure I…The card must have been switched…”

“Shut up and get out of my sight, you ridiculous fool,” Carlotta snapped. Debienne snatched the box and retreated just in time to avoid being struck by the slamming door. “As if I needed more idiocy to deal with before a performance!” she exclaimed, seating herself firmly before her mirror and beginning her make up.

“He obviously does not value you as he should, Signora,” Ledour offered confidently. Carlotta sneered.

“I wonder if he bought you and his wife the same thing, he’s never mixed them up before,” Nanette mused, once again kneeling to pick up the scattered flower. The maid ducked quickly as a pot of rouge flew towards her head.

~

Christine was trembling. There was chasm in her stomach and a charge in the air, yet, to her surprise, part of her that enjoyed the strange feelings. It was a thrilling terror, a fear with security. Even in the silence, she could feel him all around her, watching, protecting her. Christine’s eyes flew open as someone knocked on her dressing room door. She hadn’t even been aware she had closed them.

“Come in,” she called, trying to sound like a calm and confident diva. Instead she sounded somewhat like a frightened child waiting for a punishment. 

A familiar girl walked in, already smiling slyly. She had black hair and cunning, sharp features, but her eyes dark eyes were exactly like her mother’s.

“You’re Louise’s girl.” 

The girl nodded with a grin that seemed to hint of some secret conspiracy. “Julianne,” she introduced herself, producing a hand from beneath the pale green fabric of the costume she carried. Christine was extremely happy to take it. “My mother made sure that I would be your dresser; there’s only one of us to every five members of the chorus, but I’ll take special care of you,” Julianne explained warmly as she shook the wrinkles out of the costume. “Are you ready to transform, Christine?” 

“Not really,” Christine smiled and Julianne laughed.

“I understand why mother liked you. Let’s get to work.” Julianne grinned like a very satisfied cat again then set to turning Christine into a diva.

In what seemed like seconds to Christine she looked into the great mirror and saw herself utterly changed. She was a peasant maiden of ages past, clad in pastoral green. Julianne had outlined her eyes in dark pencil, and reddened her cheeks and lips with rouge. Pink and green ribbons danced in her long hair. The costume included a bodice of deep mauve, which drew in Christine’s waist and pushed up her breasts in ways that she had never experienced. Looking at this unfamiliar reflection Christine blushed under her rouge and trembled again. Tonight no one would call her _girl_ , she thought scandalously; she looked like a woman in a manner that might make Adele proud. 

“Very nice,” Julianne purred, bringing Christine back to reality. “I’m sure you’ll sound as pretty as you look.”

“I hope.” Christine replied blushed a bit more.

“Don’t be scared, there are more people than you might think who have faith in you,” Julianne countered, her voice surprisingly sincere as her sparkling black eyes caught Christine’s. “Now, make us all proud.” 

Christine nodded as Julianne squeezed her arm and left. There was a great deal of commotion in the corridor as singers and dancers all rushed to take their places. It was time for her to join them. Christine looked one last time to the mirror, a bit terrified.

“Don’t be afraid,” the mirror whispered, barely audible. “Just sing; sing for the angels.”

“Always,” Christine whispered, the thought of him filling her with strength and adoration.

She made her way to the stage, caught up in the tide of the rest of the chorus. Adele was there beside her quickly; looking lovelier than usual, with a décolletage that might get her arrested. Christine saw Meg through the crowd as well, swirling in a costume of tulle and pink silk. Together they waited in the dark of wings, listening to the audience murmuring. The overture was over in a heartbeat and at last Christine was stepping on to the stage.

The moment the music began every shred of nervousness fell away. She concentrated on every note and nuance of the music. Her teacher had instilled in her that her small part was no less important than any other. She felt the words she sang, knew the special individual among the crowd she was portraying. 

Though she was ecstatic to be singing to heaven on the grand stage again, in the rare moments of silence her attention drifted in wonder at the spectacle before her. The auditorium that had always been a dim sea of red velvet and gold before now sparkled like a trove of jewels. The massive crystal chandelier was lit for the first time that Christine had ever seen and every seat and box on all four levels was filled, except for one. The box on the grand tier that Meg’s mother tended. Christine knew though that it was not empty. Nothing in her entire world was empty any more.

~

Erik had chosen box five for its awkward location: almost on top of the stage, only two premier boxes separating it from the proscenium, on the grand tier, one level above the orchestra. The hollow column he had constructed that allowed him to enter and leave the box was quite useful and almost eliminated the need for a concierge, but Estelle Giry had proved very useful in other ways. 

Quite the opposite most other box holders, he did not come to the Opera to be seen, and instead kept to the shadows at the back of the box. He was very grateful for those shadows tonight. He hoped their soft chill would dim the memory of Christine on the other side of the mirror, so utterly stunning.

Erik’s heart had jumped when he saw Christine as the pastoral chorus was revealed on the stage, gaily singing the tired music of Meyerbeer. It was almost inevitable that his student should make her debut in the work of such a venerable and overused composer. At least there were no roller-skates in this production of _La Prophete_. Erik barely endured the vast stretches of time when the principals trod the boards alone and Christine was absent from the stage. He detested the overworked belting of the mezzo lead, an honored guest for this production only and not a regular member of the company. Her total lack of any remaining voice and technique was the only reason Carlotta had allowed an opera where she wasn’t the principle female to play, for when the diva came onstage for her limited role, she would seem to shine all the brighter. Erik personally preferred the horse’s performances to Carlotta’s. The she-demon sounded more pompous and shrill than ever because of the voice in the chorus that put her to shame. 

Erik could hear Christine through all the noise, her voice just as beautiful as her face and form. Each time the chorus reappeared he found her immediately. He had no doubt in her skill or capability to shine, but still he anticipated each note and movement like he was moving with her. Hearing her voice, even in the chorus, was miraculous. The stunning and extraordinary woman was singing for him. He had heard hundreds of Operas from the dark of box five, but never had one brought him such pleasure. When the performance ended the chorus barely had a curtain call, and Erik was gone by the time the principals were on stage.

~

Christine was shaking terribly as everyone pushed past her and the applause faded beyond the curtain. She could barely take a full breath and didn’t care about the crowd or the noise. She had felt heaven as she sang and now it was over. She felt euphoric and empty at the same time.

“Very good, my friend,” Adele was congratulating her absently. The other soprano seemed much more interested in other pursuits though and was already looking where the patrons and glittering crowds would soon swarm to mingle and flirt in the opulent _salon du danse_. Christine had no intention of joining the crowd, but Adele surveyed the field of play like a hunter. She barely noticed Christine’s nod before she trotted off, her attention caught by the first patron arriving in the wings. 

“Christine!” She turned to find Meg pushing through the crowd towards her. Christine made an effort to smile at the ballerina and succeeded to a small extent. “Excellent debut! All of Paris will be raving tomorrow!” Meg grinned, very amused with herself.

“Thank you, Meg.” 

Meg was following her like a puppy and didn’t seem to notice that they were heading down, away from the stage. At last they came to the deserted hall and Christine’s door.

“Well, this is certainly remote,” Meg quipped with a frown. “I’ve heard stories about one of the far-off dressing rooms being especially haunted and driving singers mad. It’s supposed to have a huge mirror…” Meg trailed of as she followed Christine into her own horror story.

“Don’t worry, it’s completely safe,” Christine consoled the pale ballerina. 

“If you say so…” Meg muttered shakily, inching unsubtly away from the mirror. “I guess a bit of bad luck is a small price to pay for such a big, nice room all to yourself! Oh, Christine! Some one is already sending you flowers,” Meg exclaimed and pointed to Christine’s dressing table. On her vanity lay a single, crimson red rose. “Or _flower_. But it’s quite lovely, who sent it? Is there a card? How did it get in?” 

Christine picked up the rose. Did this mean she had pleased him? 

“Well?” Meg demanded impatiently.

“What?” Christine asked dreamily, barely looking back at Meg.

“Who sent it?” A secret smiled passed over Christine face before she turned fully to the light-haired girl.

“Just a friend.” Meg pouted.

“I’ve heard about such friends; Adele, I believe, has several of them. Now, we need to be heading back to the reception so I can meet friends of my own,” Meg prompted, giving the mirror another worried glance.

“Oh no…I don’t think I will go, I don’t really like crowds and Carlotta might throw something at me.” 

“Well, that’s disappointing,” Meg muttered. “My mother won’t let me go alone. Now I have to go find her and go _home_. I hope you’re happy,” Meg chastised without a hint of real malice.

“Goodnight, Meg,” Christine smiled wearily. 

“Goodnight, Christine,” Meg murmured and left the room quickly, her eyes still avoiding the mirror. Christine laughed softly to herself as she shut the door. She floated into the center of the room and stood still, simply feeling his presence and allowing the sense of him to embrace her.

“Christine,” the air around her whispered. She smiled at the beautiful sound. 

“Angel,” she murmured, looking up to the mirror. “You were pleased?” 

“Oh yes,” the angel’s voice sighed. “I heard every note and you were wonderful. You made the angels proud.” 

Her joy was almost too much to contain and escaped as overwhelmed laughter. Her angel’s soft, beautiful laugh joined hers and she felt again as she had on stage – like she was flying.

“Thank you…” she murmured as the laughter faded.

“Were you afraid?” the angel asked, his voice kind and curious.

“No,” Christine answered instantly. “I didn’t need to be, did I? I knew…I knew he could hear me, that he was with me,” she confessed as she drifted closer to the mirror. “I knew you were with me, I could feel it. It was what you said, you were in my heart.” Christine stopped, suddenly afraid she had said too much. 

“As long as you are here, as long as you sing for me, I will always be with you.” Christine looked down, overcome. “Will you stay here tonight?” the angel asked softly, something strangely hopeful in his voice. Christine was about to answer him when a knock came on the door. She opened the door a crack and saw black eyes in a smiling face.

“Oh, Julianne…” Christine stammered.   
“I need to collect your costume, as you know, they need to be mended and cleaned as soon as possible,” the dresser explained matter-of-factly. 

“Oh, yes, of course,” Christine muttered as Julianne entered. To Christine’s surprise the black haired girl was carrying a white dressing robe. 

“I saw that you didn’t have one,” Julianne shrugged, laying the robe on the little couch and setting about releasing Christine from the tight confines of the bodice from behind her. Christine’s skin flushed as Julianne helped her to undress in sight of the mirror, though, she remarked secretly to herself, the quickening in her blood was not entirely from shyness. She pulled the robe on over her under things, suddenly aware of how cold the room was. Julianne gave her a quick glance then looked at the rose on Christine’s vanity.

“It must have been very good,” Julianne beamed slyly. “I shall have to listen next time.” 

“Thank you, Julianne,” Christine smiled weakly in return. 

Julianne shrugged and made to leave. “Are you going to the reception? It will go on for a while,” Julianne asked, her hand resting on the doorknob. 

Christine shook her head silently. Julianne gave another little shrug and smile and left, her arms full of the costume that had made Christine feel so lovely.

“No,” Christine whispered to the silence of the seemingly empty room, knowing the shadows heard her, even if they would not answer again tonight. “I am staying here.”

~

“We’ve been waiting for you!” Marie cried as Julianne entered the dancers’ crowded dressing room. The place was a complete disaster, costumes and dresses strewn everywhere and the four vanities against the wall over flowing with flotsam and jetsam.

“As if you can’t get out of your own costume,” Jammes grumbled. 

Charlotte was the first to run up to Julianne for help as the dresser caught Jammes eye.

“So what is the gossip tonight, my dears?” Julianne asked, trying to lighten her own mood.

“Debienne’s wife stormed in at the interval, apparently she finally found out about him and our lady or perpetual bad humor,” Marie expounded, snatching a chocolate from a box on her vanity.

“You shouldn’t eat too many of those or Julianne here will break her wrist trying to get you in costume,” Charlotte chided haughtily and Marie gave her a sneer.

“Where on earth has Constance gone?” Julianne asked, finishing with Charlotte and turning her attention to Marie.

“Off with her patron. I don’t think they’ll even make it to the carriage, the spectacle they were making,” Jammes explained with clear contempt. “I hope the ghost catches her again…”

“Don’t say that!” Charlotte yelped, clutching her half-fastened dress to her bosom.

“Have any of you ever heard the ghost speak?” Julianne asked without thinking, quickly helping Marie out of the tutu and into a robe. 

“Speak?” Jammes echoed fearfully, taking her place in front of Julianne. “Never.”

“His voice is supposed to be beautiful though, isn’t it?” Marie offered uneasily. Charlotte nodded.

“As beautiful as his face is awful, yes,” Julianne agreed darkly and felt Jammes shudder as she undid her laces. 

“Why do you ask that now?” Jammes demanded, her forget-me-not eyes wide.

“Let’s just say, I don’t think you have to worry about the ghost hearing you right now.”   
Jammes went a bit pale as she turned more fully to Julianne while Charlotte and Marie exchanged worried looks. “Don’t worry, I’ll protect you if he does decide to come around,” Julianne softly reassured the dancer, trying to forget the voice in Christine’s Daaé’s room.

~

Erik watched her in the light of the oil lamp that remained lit on the vanity. He had waited until he was absolutely sure she was sound asleep to step through the mirror. He had not minded waiting, sitting with his back against the icy gray stone of the secret passage, watching her and remembering her beauty. There were more proactive ways to deal with such foolish lusts than just watching, but strangely he did not feel the need, at least not tonight. Though it hurt as much as it soothed, just wanting her was a furtive pleasure of its own. 

The mirror made no more noise than the wind when it opened to let him into her world. He would not touch her, but he could be close to her for a few moments in the dark. He could take in the scent of her, so alive. She slept peaceful and content tonight, because of him, and he could convince himself that it was not a wicked, cruel lie that sustained her. What he had done had been a kindness. He had stopped her pain.

_What will happen when she finds out?_

The moment the thought came he knew it was time to turn away. He retreated through the mirror, phantom questions filling his tired mind. He would sleep too tonight, though not long and never peacefully. 

_Where will you hide from her hate when she finds out what you have done? Will she even survive the truth?_

He sighed, his fantasies fading like the light from her room. If he truly did not want to hurt her, he could never let her learn the truth. There was no danger of that of course. He was a skilled liar. In all of Paris, one man knew he was not truly a ghost and he would never come close to Christine and nothing could ever tempt Erik to tell Christine the truth himself. There was no fleeting moment of lust that could drive him to such madness. He hoped so at least, though he was not as absolutely sure of such a thing as he had been even a few days before. He worried, though he did not know why, that he could only look at the light for so long before it blinded him.

~

Christine woke stiff, but content, as usual. She liked to savor the first moments of awareness each morning, as the world slowly filled her mind and pushed back the veil of dreams. She rose from the couch and stretched lazily, trying to recall more precisely what she had dreamed the last night that had made her feel so beautiful, yet so sad.

She rolled her stiff neck in loose circles and yawned, hoping fresh air would clear the taste of sleep from her mouth. Her bare feet touched the worn carpet without a sound as she stood up. She wrapped a shawl around her and felt rather scandalous as she stepped out of into the corridor with only her new robe and modest under things beneath the coarse brown wool. 

It was too early for any of the thousands of gaslights to be lit, and the dark paneling of the halls between the dressing rooms absorbed the light of her little oil lamp like a sponge. She slipped quietly to the nearby washroom, barely making a sound to disturb the quiet of the morning. _As quiet as mouse…No, as quiet as a ghost_.

The water was almost freezing when Christine splashed it on her face. It drove away any last trace of sleep as it trickled mischievously down her sleeves and neck. She could not stop herself laughing as she caught her reflection in a shaded glass. The black around her eyes had dissolved into dark circles on her pale face. Her brief time as a diva had faded quite quickly. 

When she returned minutes later to her dressing room, she changed into her new dress, the one from Adele, careful to stay behind the dressing screen. She brushed her hair slowly and was able, after a great deal of effort, to gather it at the back of her head in something resembling the fashionable mode. She did not have the bangs however to complete the style, as Adele had reminded her. 

She sighed as she surveyed her reflection. Adele’s dress was a deep red, with black buttons up the front. It had a low V shaped neckline that rose into a smart little collar. White ruffles from the undershirt peaked out at the ends of the sleeves and the neck. It was the most fashionable thing Christine had ever owned and fit her well, now that it had been tailored. Though she did not have as ample curves as Adele, she certainly looked womanlier than she ever had in her old gray wool frock.

Did she look more like a real diva in this dress, she wondered? She tried to adjust her expression to something resembling the haughty glare she’d seen on Carlotta’s face. No, trying to look like Carlotta made her look ill. What about that proud, vapid expression of a tenor? No, that made her look delirious. She tried again, looking over her shoulder, pretending she was reviling some terrible rabble. The result was so ridiculous that Christine couldn’t help but laughing. It was a moment before she realized that she was not laughing alone.

“Practicing?” the angel asked, his voice distant but kind. 

Christine covered her face, laughing harder and blushing. She had not expected him to be there so early, but she realized that she had felt him in the room since she had returned. 

“I was just playing,” Christine muttered in embarrassment. “I thought I might look like a diva if I tried.”

“All in time, my student,” the angel consoled patiently. “One day soon, you will not need to pretend. But now, if you wish to practice something more useful, you need to breathe.”

~

Jean Paul had fallen asleep in the stable, but it was to be expected after a performance of _La Prophete_. It was his greatest role…Well, César’s greatest. The white horse had nearly had a standing ovation of his own, but it was Jean Paul and his exhausted assistant who had to literally pick up the shit afterwards. It had been Jean Paul alone who had taken on the burden of celebrating with a nice bottle of red. 

“Where the hell is your wine, man?” an agitated voice demanded from above where Jean Paul lay in the straw.

“Damn it, Thomas! You’re not supposed to know about that,” Jean Paul huffed to his friend as he struggled to become vertical. He brushed the hay off his rough spun brown trousers. His wife would complain rightly that he smelled like a stable when he made it home. 

Thomas, a well-built man with bulging arms was one of the firemen burdened with the daunting task of patrolling the Opera, locking and unlocking doors and making sure the gaslights were in order, among other duties. The man’s face was covered in brown stubble to match his hair and he looked quite grim. 

“You shouldn’t be drinking at this hour anyway…what time is it?” Jean Paul protested falsely, already searching for the bottle. 

“It’s eight, and it’s Sunday. Think of it as communion,” Thomas retorted, as Jean Paul handed him the green glass bottle. The fireman took a deep swallow of the cheap vintage.

“What’s gotten into you?” Jean Paul asked, running a hand through his gray hair. Thomas grimaced and took a second swig.

“Damn ghosts!” Thomas spat with a sneer. “You can’t walk anywhere in this place without some shadow popping out or some infernal music calling like a will-o’-the-wisp made of sound!” 

“I didn’t think the ghost would be up so early,” a voice asked from the stable entrance. 

Jean Paul and Thomas both surveyed the man who was standing by the wrought-iron gate. He was clearly foreign: his skin was a warm brown and his olive eyes and deep black hair further distinguished him from the two Frenchmen appraising him. He was of average height and strongly built with an earnest, thoughtful face and a well-trimmed beard. He wore a well-made suit of navy with a blue vest and necktie beneath a heavy black wool coat and a fur cap.

“What would you know?” Thomas asked suspiciously. 

Jean Paul was sorry of it. He had heard of a foreigner lurking about the Opera. The managers apparently did not want anyone talking to him or even letting him in.

“Oh, nothing really, I just do enjoy such stories. I’m sorry to have eavesdropped,” the man shrugged. He had moved closer to them though. “You said you heard singing? That’s new.” 

“Well, it is an opera house. You’ve got to expect music, can’t imagine how you think that’s the ghost’s doing,” Jean Paul muttered, trying to think of a way to get both men out of his stable.

“Not at eight on a Sunday! And not like that!” Thomas countered crossly. The foreigner raised an eyebrow. “I heard two people singing like angels out of heaven and I’ll be damned if I’ve ever heard _that_ before, even here…” Thomas grumbled, taking another deep sip of wine. He offered the bottle to the stranger who refused with a shake of his head. Jean Paul grabbed the bottle back with a loud scoff before it was all wasted.

“Will-o’-the-Wisp you said?” the man asked. “I’m not familiar with that term, if you’ll pardon me.”

“They’re lights in the woods at night that lure travelers of the road. That music, it’s like that; a light in the dark so beautiful you want to follow it, and before you know it, you’re lost,” Thomas explained bitterly. 

“Light in the darkness? Didn’t know music could sound like that,” Jean Paul mused before he could stop himself.

“Oh it can, my friend, it can…” the foreigner answered. His expression had darkened considerably, but only Jean Paul noticed. He felt as if Thomas had unwittingly said something very dangerous.

“And it can sound that way in this damn haunted place,” Thomas muttered. “Here there are angels singing in the dark.”


	9. Illumination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christine encounters an old friend and Erik realizes the extent of his feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope y'all like the double update and the introduction of certain handsome nobleman. See you Thursday - the next chapter is one of my favorites and definitely the raciest yet.

Erik leaned back from the keyboard of his magnificent pipe organ, a thunderous crescendo still reverberating in the dark beneath the Opera. He didn’t know how long he had been engrossed in the music, but the aches in his neck, back and hands told him it had been hours. He had been playing and composing more and more since Christine’s first performance, if only to fill the hours when she was gone. Playing the organ took the most physical exertion of any instrument, as it required the use of not only hands and arms to work the keys but legs for the pedals. It was exhausting, but it was a relief to ache with weariness and exertion instead of futile need. 

The thought of her, which the music had only barely pushed away for those fleeting hours, returned almost instantly as Erik stared at the now silent instrument before him. She was gone again tonight. It was the eighth such night in the fifteen since his pupil’s debut but the first time she had ever not stayed in the Opera after a performance. After her curtain call in Massenet’s _La Roi de Lahore_ two other members of the chorus had pulled her away from the dressing room. They had demanded that she join them in the reception with the patrons, which she had, much to Erik’s great relief refused, but she had not returned either. She had cast a regretful look back towards the mirror when she had left into the December night. Perhaps the dark Opera had grown too cold for her. Erik didn’t really care about the reason; he just wished there had been a way to make her stay.

Erik sighed aloud at the thought, knowing that her growing absence was his doing. The chorus members were only required to be at the Opera for rehearsals and performances, which took up far less time than the unending work in the massive underground costume workshops. It meant Christine was free to study her music and attend more lessons with her spectral teacher, and yet still had more time each day to pursue a life beyond the Opera’s walls. She would flit off with her little dancer, or the other soprano she seemed to share lodgings with. Once she had even left with her dresser and the costume mistress to share super at their home. 

Then again, Christine seemed to take any excuse to remain at the Opera beyond rehearsals. She would wander the halls like a ghost herself, finding the hidden places and secrets She had discovered the attic above the stage where massive sets were stored like ruins of some ancient civilization. She had found the little windowed room on the top level where she liked to read. 

Erik stood from the organ, finally daring to look at the clock. He was relieved to see that it was only an hour before dawn. It was Sunday and, unlike most of Paris, Christine never went to church. Why should she, when she had her own angel to attend to? Instead she might come to the Opera early today and sneak in with her former compatriots from the costumers to do laundry, either for herself or for a few extra francs, as they did. She had done it the Sunday before, Erik remembered with a smile. He could not watch her in that room, but he could listen through the walls. He could hear her voice and imagine her smile.

It would not be too early to begin to watch for her return. There was a nook near the employees’ entrance that he liked to use to monitor comings and goings. Since it was Sunday, the attendant would not even be there. It was a secret only a few knew that the management had given up trying to keep that particular door locked on Sundays. It was almost as if a benevolent spirit made sure those who needed to always found their way in.

The first light of dawn was creeping in through the leaded glass already when Erik arrived to take up his post. From deep shadows he could actually see out onto the Rue De Scribe. Very few people were moving so early, but one particular figure caught Erik’s eyes. A man in dark coat and an astrakhan hat was lingering in the street, watching the same door that Erik was currently guarding.

“What are you looking for today, Daroga?” Erik muttered, his mood darkening considerably. He would have to make sure the door was locked again after Christine found her way in. Anyone else desiring to enter the Opera that day would have to be sorely disappointed.

~

Christine pulled her shawl closer around her shoulders. In a few days it would be winter officially, but the chill in the air certainly made it feel like the season had arrived early. She could see her breath and, past the scent of horses, coal dust and thousands of people, the air smelled like snow. As she approached the Opera, she wondered what the great building would look like in winter. Would the green copper of the dome still be visible?

“Are you even listening to me?” 

Christine started. Meg Giry had been walking with her since the Rue Richelieu and had been talking non-stop since then, mostly wondering why she had run into Christine going to the Opera on a Sunday instead of church. Meg had decided the hot, moist air of the Opera laundry was a better option on a cold mid-December day than a chilly pew as well.

“What?” 

“You weren’t listening!” Meg pouted. “I was saying that all the richest patrons and box holders will be there at the performance day after tomorrow, since it’s the last of the year.”

“Oh, yes…is that exciting?” Christine murmured as they came within the shadow of the hulking theater. 

“Of course it’s exciting!” Meg chided. “How are we ever going to get you any supporters if you don’t even know these simple things!”

“It much easier to make extra money doing laundry on Sundays,” Christine smiled as the rounded the corner of the Opera. 

Meg gave her a furious look. 

“And anyway, I don’t need supporters, Meg, I have you.” 

“Oh Christine, look!” Meg squealed suddenly, grabbing Christine’s arm to turn her while simultaneously pointing at a dark-skinned man standing in a doorway on the Rue de Scribe. “That’s the one I told you about, the Persian!”

“Who?” Christine asked, truly interested this time. The man was staring at them rather intently, most likely because Meg was still pointing and now whispering in Christine’s ear.

“Honestly, you never listen,” Meg grumbled. “The Persian. He caused some trouble a year or two ago when he first showed up, he kept popping up in odd places around the Opera. Some people say he works for the ghost! Someone saw them together once.”

“Really?” 

The man caught Christine’s green eyes with his deep brown ones and nodded politely. For some reason it gave Christine more of a chill than the frosty air. 

“Let’s get somewhere warm, Meg,” Christine ordered quietly. “You can tell me more ghost stories there.”

The two made their way into the Opera and to the caverns below the stage where the labyrinth of corridors, workshops and hidden places seemed to go on forever. Meg confessed to Christine that she had never been to the workshops before; the world below the stage had always been too frightening to her. Her terror was quickly dispelled when she entered the laundry, the air already thick with soap, steam and good-natured banter.

“Ah, so the diva returns again,” white-haired Elaine called out as Christine and Meg entered. Christine smiled to see familiar faces. Even Louise was there today, with Julianne washing at her side. “And who have you brought us today?”

“Something even better than a singer,” Christine grinned mischievously, pushing Meg out in front of her. “This one dances.” A chorus erupted from the half-dozen women, including a few whistles.

“Good day…” Meg stuttered before turning to give Christine a gentle glare.

“What on earth are you doing traipsing around with this one?” Louise asked with a wink. 

“Oh well, she’s…” Meg furrowed her brow in thought. 

“I’m just odd enough to keep her interest,” Christine finished for her. Julianne flashed her a smile and Louise laughed. “And Meg here knows some wonderful ghost stories, I thought she might even have a few you clucking chickens haven’t heard.” Meg had indeed proved quite the little storyteller, though most, like her tale of the Persian, were usually too absurd to be believed. 

“Well, they must be good stories if they impress our diva here,” Julianne purred as Christine rolled up her sleeves. “Let’s hear one.”

“Oh, well…” Meg bit her lip, also rolling up the sleeves of her blouse, but not actually taking up any work. “Have you heard about the stagehand that saw his face?”

“Everyone has heard Buquet’s story,” little dusty-haired Camille warned, perhaps finding that tale a bit too terrifying.

“What about the fireman that saw him with a head made of fire?” Meg tried again. 

The women nodded.

“Was that the one that claimed the ghost had him by the neck?” Louise asked, half-interested.

“No, no, that was a different fireman, and we all know he was a liar,” Elaine corrected. “Ghosts can’t strangle people.”

“This one can!” Meg protested and most of the room seemed to agree. “If he can write notes or break mirrors or pushover sets, he can touch people if he wants to.” 

Christine hoped no one notice as she shivered.

“A head of fire still seems very unlikely,” Julianne commented as she scrubbed a dress. “Did he have a head of fire when you saw him, Christine?” 

Meg turned to Christine so fast her blonde curls whipped around to wallop her awestruck face.

“You’ve seen him?!” Meg demanded. 

“Only for a moment,” Christine muttered, looking down into the soapy water before her and seeing his amazing eyes in her mind. 

“What did he look like, did you see his face?” Meg pushed. 

“No, he was wearing the mask,” Christine answered reluctantly.

“Do you really think he looks like Buquet said, like she’s dead underneath?” Meg asked, though the question seemed to be directed more towards the entire room. Christine was grateful of it. For reasons she couldn’t really define, she neither enjoyed nor believed the various tales of what the ghost looked like beneath the white mask that cover all but his mouth.

“Well, it makes sense doesn’t it? If he’s dead he’ll look dead,” said Julianne.

“I heard once that if you saw beyond his mask, the only thing there is darkness, no face, no anything,” Elaine told the group, relishing the shivers she incited.

“No, no; it’s like Buquet said – he looks like some awful skull,” Meg countered. “It’s because of what happened to him.” 

The women perked up; the origins of the ghost remained a subject of much debate in the Opera. Even Christine found herself looking at the blonde dancer. 

“Everyone knows, mostly, what he looks like, don’t they? But have you heard what he sounds like?” 

Christine tried to keep her face vacant.

“I heard his voice once…” 

It was, astoundingly, tiny, shaking Camille. As she continued with difficulty, Christine hoped the little mouse would not faint before she finished. 

“I didn’t see him, but his voice told me not to walk alone in the dark. It was…beautiful.” It was not only Christine who shivered.

“That’s right,” Meg continued, lowering her voice. “Well, what I’ve heard is that long ago, he was a man who loved music more than anything, and he wanted to be here and sing in the opera forever. So he sold his soul to the devil…but the devil tricked him. He made his face as terrible as the voice was beautiful, and he cursed him to remain here forever, never to be heard.” 

Christine shuddered. Her angel was somehow trapped in the darkness, though she might never know why.

“Is he waiting for someone to save him then?” Julianne asked, the only one unimpressed.

“Why would anyone want to do that?” Meg asked incredulously. “The Opera wouldn’t survive without his guidance.”

“Pity, perhaps?” Julianne suggested calmly. 

Christine’s eyes flew to the black-haired girl. She was looking at Christine with a strange challenge behind her smile. Christine willed her heart to beat slower.

“See, Meg, I told you this was a good way to spend a Sunday,” Christine told her friend.

Meg scowled, watching Christine take another piece of washing and plunge it into the water. 

“I still don’t think this is a substitute for getting a nice patron to take care of you.”

Christine was not the only one who laughed.

“A patron? Is that what you want, little girl?” Elaine clucked. “I’ve heard about what happens to the girls who get passed around among that lot.” 

“Oh no, I don’t want someone like that,” Meg countered. “I want to find one to marry me.” 

The laughter was much louder in response to this proclamation. Christine’s was perhaps the loudest.

“Patrons don’t marry girls like us, Meg,” Christine chuckled.

“They do! Really, I’ve heard of it happening!” Meg whimpered.

Louise rolled her eyes while Elaine and Julianne shook their heads. 

“It’s true, everyone says Sorelli is due for a proposal from Philippe de Chagny any day now.”

“Who?” Christine asked before she could stop herself.

“Sorelli is the prima ballerina, and she’s been saying that for a year,” Julianne sneered. 

“And Comte Philippe De Chagny is one of the richest men in Paris. Everyone adores him,” Meg recited, as if she had told Christine a dozen times. It was possible she had, just Christine had not thought about the familiar name until now. “One day I’m going to marry someone like him.”

“Is that all you want, Meg, to marry some stuffed shirt with an estate?” Christine teased, dismissing a few absurd thoughts of her own. 

“What more could anyone want?” asked Meg.

Christine found herself avoiding Julianne’s eyes again, as well as Meg’s hopeful expression. She worried that if they looked in her eyes they would see her dreams: dreams of seeing a face beyond a white mask that shone like the sun, dreams of a beautiful voice singing forever, dreams of the applause of a glittering audience, dreams of a summer by the sea, when she too had believed in Meg’s fairytales; all of them, beautiful and impossible. 

“I don’t know…just something _more _,” Christine whispered, wondering if the shadows were listening as well.__

__~_ _

__Erik smiled to himself as Christine lay down on the couch, pulling the thick wool blanket that had mysteriously found its way into her possession over herself. It had been a great relief to finally have her alone after spending the morning watching her wander the Opera with the tiny, loquacious dancer in tow. But it was almost the shortest day of the year, which meant darkness came early. The petit rat had not wanted to stay in the haunted Opera after dark, and had not understood Christine’s assertion that she wished to practice before returning home. Erik did not care about whether or not his box-keeper’s daughter believed Christine’s claim, only that Christine made it and that his pupil had stolen into her dressing room smiling._ _

__The lesson had been wonderful tonight, he thought, as he leaned back against the chilly, gray stone of the secret passage. She had sung with such exquisite passion and longing that he had barely been able to critique her. Something had caught fire in her heart today. She seemed exhausted afterward, and he had gently suggested that she stay and avoid the cold journey home. She had seemed happy to obey._ _

__Now her sleeping face was turned towards the mirror, bathed in the dim light of the oil lamp. He was glad that she kept it burning. He knew she did not like to wake in the darkness, and it made it so much easier to watch her. He wished it were that easy to keep her there._ _

__He closed his eyes but the vision of her face did not dim. In fact, the light became brighter. Erik opened his eyes and the light was still there, but it was not shining from beyond the mirror, it was from a lantern had not recalled he was holding. The lantern light grew brighter and brighter, so bright that surely if she woke she would see him on the other side of the mirror. As soon as he thought it, he saw her rise from the couch and knew she could see him…and she was smiling, smiling as she always did when she heard his voice. Still the light grew brighter, it hurt his eyes and the lantern was suddenly burning his skin. He dropped the lantern and the light guttered into darkness._ _

__She was gone. He rushed through the open mirror, trying to recall the direction she had fled. There, a glimmer of light down a dark corridor! He chased after her, unafraid to be seen. She had already seen him and smiled. Down another twisting dark passage and suddenly she was there, but she was not alone. The little dancer was pulling her towards a crowd of people. And in the crowd was the Daroga, glowering at Erik with condemnation in his eyes. He was beside Christine, whispering in her ear. She looked at Erik again, but this time she did not smile. Her expression was of betrayed horror._ _

__“No, Christine, no…” Erik cried, but she was gone again._ _

__Everyone was gone. He was back in his home beneath the Opera, but the doors were all locked. One by one each candle was going out. How would he ever find her without the light? Then, like a miracle, she was there smiling at him again. He could hear her song even though she did not move her mouth. She was so beautiful._ _

__Erik reached out a shaking hand to finally touch her. He held his breath as at last his hand caressed the skin of her cheek. But her skin was cold, as dry as dead leaves under his hand and had turned the color of ash…because she was ash. She was disappearing as he touched her, falling away into nothing until all that remained were her eyes._ _

__They were not even eyes anymore – they were mirrors, huge terrible mirrors that reflected his unmasked face. Her voice had changed into a scream._ _

__Erik woke from the nightmare with a start, cold sweat compounding the chill of having fallen asleep behind the mirror. He tried to catch his breath, telling himself it was just a foolish dream. It meant nothing. She would never see him. Christine was still there, safe beyond the mirror and, blessedly, her eyes were still closed._ _

__~_ _

__It was quite chaotic for a Tuesday afternoon at the Opera, Christine mused from a hidden viewpoint in the wings. She enjoyed watching the stagehands transform the massive expanse of the stage from one fantastic world to another. Such activity was to be expected, since tonight was the final performance of the year. After that, the Opera would be ostensibly closed for almost two weeks. However, rehearsals and the day-to-day work of the theater would only be suspended for about a week, allowing the employees some time to enjoy the holiday. Christine found that, like her, most Opera denizens preferred a weekly pay to rest._ _

__The stagehands were yelling and laughing as they lowered the first _trompe d’oeil_ backdrop of the night; a scene of a distant city which would be visible out of the window of Faust’s tower. It took so much chaos and noise to make Opera, Christine though to herself absently, as she watched and ate some bread she had liberated from the kitchens. If you really listened and knew where to go, most days the cacophony was amazing._ _

__Aside from the constant work of the carpenters, costumers and others below the stage, in the warren of offices and rehearsal rooms and halls above and behind the stage, there was endless noise: lessons or practices of some, stern répétiteurs grinding parts into principals or seasoned maestros trying to mold a stubborn new voice. In the dance studios below the twin domes on the east and west sides of the Opera was the constant dull tap and thud of toes shoes on polished wood. That was the world of the so-called _petit rats_ of the ballet, to which Meg had recently introduced her._ _

__These lithe young girls always amused Christine with their endless energy and the changeability of their moods. They began their arduous training very young, and some were on stage by the time they were fourteen. Meg herself had first preformed at sixteen. She had been lucky, since most of the girls didn’t even make it into the company. Despite their innocence the competition between them was as fierce as between any two singers, if not worse. Christine had watched the dance rehearsals a few times; taking in the smooth graceful plies and leaps as rehearsal piano played politely in the background amid the murmur of mothers, instructors and chaperones._ _

__It was such a strange contrast to think of the dancers while watching the stagehands swear and sweat among the chaos of the stage and the endless flies above. She gave a small smile to one who stood at least a foot above the rest. Alonzo always seemed to notice her but was unfailingly welcoming. Today the massive man was carrying half of Faust’s study across the stage. The stagehands in the flies were much less friendly and much more vociferous than those on stage. There was one in particular that seemed to be doing most of the yelling and swearing; a large man with arms like the branches of a huge tree and a unkempt mess of a beard. His hairy face was in contrast to his bald scalp and neither gave a particularly welcoming impression. It was his eyes though that Christine disliked, like his repeated harsh orders to his men, they seemed vicious._ _

__“Damn it, Buquet, I hear you the first time you bloody ass!” a red-faced stagehand yelled back at the large man._ _

__“Then do it right, you fucking fool,” Buquet shouted back._ _

__So this was the man who said he had seen the ghost unmasked, Christine mulled. It made her even surer that his story had to be wrong. How could her angel, even if he was a ghost or damned, look the way this horrible man said? Christine shuddered at the thought and rose from her place in the wings, suddenly bored with the spectacle._ _

__She returned to her dressing room, smiling automatically when she saw the mirror. She had slept at home again the night before and had missed the feeling of it watching over her. During her lesson that day he had asked if she had been cold in her flat the night before, he did not want her getting a sore throat from the chill. In truth the hotel St. Claude was warmer than the empty opera house in winter, especially by the fire in the parlor that never went out. Her angel had been silent when she had said that, and she had assumed the lesson ended. Christine frowned at the thought, hoping she could redeem herself for the unknowing indiscretion with a good performance that night. It would be her first _Faust._ _ _

__It was a moment before Christine noticed the new object on her vanity, among the other clutter. Beside the picture of her father that she had carried for years was a new book. It was an Italian work on singing she had heard of many times, but French copies were rare. Yet her angel had found one for her. She did not want to walk home in the cold and darkness, and would be happy to have something to read after the performance that night._ _

__~_ _

__Erik had watched Christine as she waited in the wings during the first act, remembering how he had watched her when she first came to the Opera and the way the music had brought her to life. She looked lovely in her faux-peasant garb as she talked absently with her acquaintances in the chorus. He was shocked the chatter could not be heard by the audience; not that their chatter was much quieter._ _

__He had only watched act two through four from box five, for it was the most he would be able to see and hear of Christine. The choirs of angels, which sang for Marguerite at the finale, were unfortunately kept off stage, necessitating his return to the shadows of the wings. Now Carlotta was taking her third bow, even though the ovation was fading quickly, and Erik was making his way to meet Christine in her dressing room._ _

__Placing a red rose on her vanity had been rather odd gesture on his part for her debut, but he had not stopped the practice. It was so easy to steal a flower from some other singer’s bouquet and leave it in the darkened room before she arrived. The room always had to be dark when he entered, since the risk he might catch his reflection was too great in the light._ _

__When Christine arrived at last, she was, as Erik had ruefully expected, not alone.  
This time she was trailed by the dancer, and the soprano with caramel hair and positively indecent curves who always seemed to be pulling Christine towards the world of light. Erik tensed at the sight of her._ _

__“Come on, Christine, I know you’re not telling the truth,” the woman was teasing and Christine was for some reason blushing. “I’ve missed you coming home and leaving enough times to know you have a habit of sleeping somewhere else.”_ _

__“I told you, I come late and leave early,” Christine protested._ _

__“I know a thing or two about coming home late,” the woman smiled dangerously. “I myself never make it home until three or four on the night of a performance…”_ _

__“Really? Why on earth…” the little dancer began to ask before realizing what the soprano was talking about. “Oh!”_ _

__“I don’t have a lover, Adele, really,” Christine stated, clearly repeating herself. “If I did you’d be the first to know,” she added acerbically._ _

__“Then where do you go?” Adele pried. “And why don’t you join us to meet the patrons? They’ll have noticed a pretty new chorus girl by now.” Adele was smiling lustily again but_ _

__Christine sighed in exasperation. Erik was glad of it. He wanted nothing less than for Christine, who was so different and rare, to be drawn into the common, sordid world of the patrons and their mistresses among the company. She belonged to him, and he would be damned before he ever let…_ _

__“I stay here, alright,” Christine protested, cutting off Erik’s dark thoughts and calming him. “I read and practice and wander. I like it here.” The two other women did not seem to believe her. Erik ignored them: Christine had seen the rose and he had seen the beautiful secret smile she saved for him alone._ _

__“Now I know you’re lying,” Adele scolded and Christine scowled in frustration, her attention pulled back again._ _

__“Not even you could be mad enough to stay here alone the entire night,” Meg Giry agreed._ _

__“How can I convince you?” Christine whimpered._ _

__“Come to the party,” Adele said simply. Erik’s long hands contracted into tense fists in the dark behind the mirror. “If you go the whole night without looking at anyone, we’ll know for sure that you’re got some lover hidden somewhere else.” Adele’s smile broadened. “Or maybe he will be there.” Meg Giry giggled and grabbed Christine’s arm._ _

__“If I do this, will you leave me be?” Erik could not believe she was surrendering to them so easily._ _

__“Of course we will,” Adele purred, quite obviously lying. “But first we need to get you ready.” Christine raised her eyebrows. “You can’t go like that, dear girl! I’m going to tart you up properly. Come on, Jeanette will have something that will fit you. Yes, you too, little rat.” Meg was almost squealing in excitement as the two women led Christine from the dressing room._ _

__Erik stood behind the mirror in the sudden stillness. They would be going to the _salon du danse_ behind the stage. There was a place in the flies that abutted the salon, where one could see through a chink in the armor between the two worlds, one gilded, one mechanical. The flies would be almost deserted now – the night’s sets would not be struck until morning, but Erik hesitated to make his way there. Though she remained in his Opera, Christine had left him again, and he was not sure he could bear to see that._ _

__~_ _

__Christine could barely breathe as Adele pulled her into the glittering salon, yet despite that she gasped when they entered. The Opera Garnier was stuffed with opulent salons and reception rooms, each more gaudy and intricate than the last. Christine had visited them before, when they were quiet and mostly empty. Never had she seen a salon as it was meant to be seen: blazing with light and filled with people as well appointed and beautiful as the room. For a moment she was so stunned, she forgot she did not want to be there._ _

__“See, it’s not so terrible,” Adele whispered in her ear. Meg was practically vibrating in excitement on her other side. Christine shook her head, unable to argue and still struggling to catch her breath._ _

__The _salon du danse_ was massive, appointed, like many of the salons, with various statutes and artistic touches. The room would have fit easily into the palace at Versailles and served as a shimmering reminder of the premier place of the ballet in the world of the Paris Opera. In a strange way it reminded Christine of her dressing room, since colossal mirrors dominated several walls. The largest mirror was over thirty feet long and perhaps twenty feet high. The rehearsal barre in front of it, as well as the worn wooden floor were perhaps the only indications that the room was indeed used for ballet rehearsals, as well as functions. _ _

__Christine’s attention wandered through the room and to the mirror, where a slender dancer was stretching at the barre for the entertainment of two well-dressed men. Before Christine could be shocked she caught her own reflection in the glass._ _

__“Oh God, Adele…” Christine muttered and blushed deeply for the twentieth time since Adele had forced her into the borrowed yellow satin._ _

__She had never been dressed in such a way, with her waist painfully cinched several inches smaller. The neckline of the dress was lined in black lace, which only served to emphasize how scandalously low it was and the way it exposed Christine’s pale shoulders. As was the height of fashion, the skirt was gathered in cascading pleats and bustling in the back, making it terribly difficult to walk. Adele and Meg had also arranged her hair high on her head. Her only victory of the night had been in convincing them not to cut bangs._ _

__“You look ravishing, silly girl,” Adele argued through a smile. She pulled Christine’s hand away from where it was trying to conceal the newly exposed skin of her chest and placed a glass of champagne in it._ _

__“Now, look over there,” Adele directed Christine’s attention to another dancer who was the focus of several men’s attention. “That’s little Marie, have you heard of her? That artist who always lurks about the dance studio, De-something, he did the most scandalous sculpture of her last year. It was the talk of the Paris exhibition. And over there, you know Fontana, and Rameau the lead bass beside him, well, Fontana’s been after a different ballerina, little Jammes, see, there she is, quite pretty. Of course she’s been leading him on. She’s got some other lover she won’t name, and I’ve heard she is hoping to seduce the director of the ballet, Monsieur LaRoche himself…”_ _

__Christine was barely aware of Adele’s continuing commentary. She surveyed the crowded room and tried to ignore the feeling that her angel was watching in furious disapproval. Christine had never been to a brothel, and she was sure they were much smaller and seedier than this, but she believed the general atmosphere might be comparable. She took a sip of the champagne and was surprised at the dry, starry taste and they way it seemed to make the room somehow brighter but more distant._ _

__The patrons were all dressed impeccably in smart, black dress coats and crisp white shirts. They tried to distinguish themselves from this standard uniform with variations in neckties and vests, but it was a rather half-hearted affair. It was the women who really intrigued her. Perhaps it was the way they moved, Christine thought, as she absently took another sip of champagne; something about them was not quite _real._ They laughed too loudly, smiled too seductively, and leaned forward towards their admirers too enticingly, all with a lithe, knowing grace. They wore satin and silk and taffeta in every color. Jewels, bought no doubt by their admirers, adorned their thin necks and delicate wrists. Some of the dancers still wore their ballet tutus or costumes from the evening’s performance, which allowed tempting views of their bare legs and arms. The looks in the eyes of the men that watched them, as they moved like wisps of fog through the crowd, made Christine blush again._ _

__She tried to focus on something else. Adele was pointing out the managers of the Opera, Messieurs Debienne and Poligny. One was a shorter man with a waxed mustache and black hair that seemed to be painted on his balding scalp. The other was a ponderous, grey-haired man with angular features and sideburns. They did not seem to be enjoying the party as much as the other guests and were engaged in deep conversation with two other men, one bald and the other with spectacles and thick brown hair. Christine looked way and then fought back the urge to hide behind Adele as she spotted Carlotta. There was no danger she would notice Christine though, since she was utterly surrounded by patrons and other admirers. She was laughing loudly and shrilly._ _

__Christine felt the world spin a little more as she took another sip of champagne and tried to concentrate on Adele; though it would be impressive for anyone to really listen to Adele that night, since her red taffeta dress left very little to the imagination. Christine followed where Adele was directing her gaze and the room suddenly stopped spinning and grew very quiet._ _

__Far across the room, framed by the magnificent gildings of the mirror were two men with light brown hair. One was taller and older and wore a thin, well-maintained mustache on his handsome face. On his arm was a woman who looked like a willow tree: pale, delicate, limber and a bit sad. The older man had a bright, easy smile and when he laughed, which was often, it seemed truly genuine._ _

__“…And _that’s_ Philippe De Chagny,” Adele whispered enthusiastically in Christine’s ear. “That sour looking creature beside him is Sorelli, and the handsome fellow – well I don’t know who that is…”_ _

__“His brother,” Christine revealed softly._ _

__The young man was indeed handsome, though his features were so much more delicate than his older brother’s that he might even have been called beautiful. He too had bright, smiling brown eyes to match his soft brown hair and a well-made form, but his expression was much more reserved than his raucous brother’s. He had no beard or moustache, which made him even easier to recognize._ _

__“Oh yes, Antoine did say that young Raoul De Chagny had just returned from time with the navy…” Adele commented with a knowing smile. Christine looked away, the room suddenly too loud again._ _

__“And you _know_ him?” Meg gasped in awe. _ _

__Out of the corner of her eyes, Christine could see Adele smiling wickedly._ _

__“I…” Christine began to stutter, casting another sidelong glance at the striking nobleman.  
“Ah, there’s Antoine now!” Adele exclaimed, uninterested. In a second she was gone from Christine’s side to join her own patron, a very tall, blonde man with ice blue eyes and a rather unsympathetic expression. His eyes widened in satisfaction as Adele took his arm._ _

__“Really, do you know him?” Meg pestered, grabbing Christine’s attention back._ _

__Christine looked towards Raoul again, and this time he noticed her staring. She held his gaze and could not help but let a gentle smile creep over her face, even as she began to blush. She thought she saw recognition begin to dawn in his handsome countenance. Then suddenly his brother was introducing a pair of grinning dancers to the younger man, and he looked away. Christine looked down, suddenly cold. She could feel other eyes still watching her still._ _

__“No, not any more,” Christine whispered to Meg. “Tell Adele I will give Jeanette back her dress…sometime later,” Christine stammered, the feeling that she was suffocating in the corset suddenly overpowering her._ _

__“You’re leaving already?” Meg gaped. “You can’t!”_ _

__“I feel ill, I need to go home,” Christine excused herself, not really lying._ _

__“I’ll go with you then, we can afford a carriage if we go together,” Meg suggested glumly._ _

__Christine did not protest. It did not matter where she spent the night. She would not sleep for fear of dreams._ _

__

__Erik closed his eyes on the pain as he watched her go. He should have listened to that fading reasonable voice inside him. He could have endured another night simply knowing she was gone, but now he did not even dare return home, for fear of what he might destroy amidst the haze of anger and hurt. The pain of watching her leave again was nothing compared to the agony that had engulfed him when she had smiled at that boy._ _

___Who was he_? The question pounded on his consciousness like hammer on anvil. Did she know him? How could she smile like that for a stranger? It had been that beautiful, secret and shy smile that he had only seen her give her angel. It was _his_ smile. How could she…_ _

__Erik stood abruptly from where he had been bent against the wall in breathless anguish. He would not allow himself to feel this. He had sworn long ago that he would never let the world hurt him this way again. But the world never had hurt him quite this way before, had it? He had endured a lifetime of loneliness and persecution, but in that moment it all seemed pale compared to the thought of Christine Daaé smiling at another._ _

__He turned towards the thicket of rope and machinery filing the flies, and started walking with deadly purpose, just to move, to get away from the maddening memory. He did not want to think of tomorrow, of her face beyond the mirror, of the light in her eyes that he thought only belonged to him…_ _

__He gave a cry as he struck the nearest thing to him, a line of perfectly coiled ropes. An entire backdrop quivered below him, suddenly unsecured. The violence of it had been a release. He gripped another rope and pulled viciously, below him something crashed to the stage. Another blow at random, this time he struck a bit of the machinery and more ropes began to move._ _

__He savored the destruction and the pain coursing through his hand. One more strike and he might forget. One more jolt of pain through his body and he wouldn’t remember the dagger she had plunged in his heart._ _

__~_ _

__Christine ran even though her body was aching and the pre-dawn air was so cold it made each breath hurt. She didn’t care if the Opera might be locked so early. She didn’t care about the snow that had begun to fall._ _

__She knew, though she could not say how, that she had done something foolish. It had been wrong to leave his world. She hoped it was not too late. She had not even been able to speak to him after the performance before she had gone to that stupid party. She needed to hear his voice. She needed to know he was still there._ _

__By some miracle the employee entrance was unlocked and unguarded. The Opera was dark and seemed utterly empty as she raced to her dressing room, unable to detect any sense of him in the air. Why did she have the terrible feeling that he might be gone?_ _

__She burst into the dark or her dressing room, her anxiety cascading into panic. She lit the gaslights with trembling hands and finally looked towards the mirror. Her face was flushed and her hair was loose and wild, still dusted with snow. She stared at the glass, willing the air to come alive with magic, to make her believe that he was there._ _

__“Angel…” she whispered, trying to hold back tears._ _

__“I had not expected to see you here again so soon.” If it was possible her heart jumped and broke at the same time. His voice was cold and irritated. “Have you no more patrons to entertain?”_ _

__The statement was as sharp as a slap and hurt just as keenly. She could feel his anger in the air, as surely as she had felt it the night before, the moment she had looked away from Raoul._ _

__“I…” Christine could not find the words._ _

__“I am not interested in your excuses,” he countered. Christine looked down, unable to fight back her tears any longer._ _

__“I’m so sorry, Angel,” she prayed, sinking to the ground. “Please, please forgive me…”_ _

__

__It was her tears that washed away the last traces of rage. Erik hated that he had hurt her and that his foolish fit of jealousy had reduced her to pain so quickly._ _

__“Oh, Christine, I forgive you,” he murmured, the pain she had caused him transmuting into the familiar ache to reach out to her. Her eyes turned up towards the mirror again, filling with hope. “But how can I trust you? How can I teach you when it is so easy for you to leave me?”_ _

__“I could never leave you, Angel,” Christine answered breathlessly. Her face was filling with her beautiful light again, like dawn. “Just as you can never leave me, I can never be without you. You are in my heart, don’t you know that?”_ _

__“No, I did not,” Erik replied without thinking, suddenly cold beyond the mirror, trying to understand her strange, ardent words. She could not have meant it…_ _

__“Oh, my angel, my heart is so full of you that if I lost you, I do not think it could keep beating. You are my life and…”_ _

__What was she saying? She seemed to be debating whether to continue her confession. Part of him wanted her to stop, to leave his world intact, but a much stronger side of him wanted nothing more than for her to keep the promise in her eyes._ _

__“I love you.”_ _

__Erik fell back as if he had been struck. The pain of the long, terrible night before had been nothing, absolutely nothing, compared to this. But it was not only pain; it was something so much brighter and blinding._ _

__“I love you, my angel,” Christine breathed again._ _

__It was enough to make the aching inside him explode in spectacular hurt and joy. He leaned back towards the glass, unable to see her clearly through tears._ _

__“Oh, Christine,” he breathed in a voice thick with an anguish as intense as it was beautiful. Christine: it was the only word he could find. Christine, who had seen into his soul, who had pitied him, who had never feared him, who sang and smiled only for him… _Christine, who said she loved him._ The thought of her was the only answer to the yearning within him. Yet at the same time it seemed to make it even worse. He stared at her face: her eyes were so full of blinding light that was filling him and burning him alive. _ _

__He loved her. He knew with a horrible certainty that he loved her, and worse, he had loved her a very long time. The idea had been so fantastic and terrifying that it had never even occurred to him. How could a phantom, a monster, feel love after so long in the dark? Yet, somehow she had found her way past every mask and defense until each empty aching place in his heart had become filled entirely with her. He could never be with her, never even touch her without destroying everything she believed in, but he loved her none-the-less. Foolishly and terribly, with ever breath of life in him, he loved her._ _

__She was looking at him, at the mirror, with expectant, searching eyes. What could he ever say to answer her? Could she believe her angel had a heart that overflowed with her?_ _

__“Christine, any love that comes from you…” he could not fight the words pouring from his shattered soul, “is reflected a thousand times in me. I love you.” He wanted to close his eyes, for the joy in her face was almost too pure and shining to endure. But in that joy there had to be hope. If she could love an angel so completely, surely there had to be a chance for a man. As long as he could keep her with him, he could love her and watch her, until he found a way. “Never turn away from me again, Christine,” he whispered, desperate and devoted._ _

__“Never,” she promised with a nod. It was not enough; the memory of that stolen smile and the sting of her absence still smarted._ _

__“Sing only for me, love only me…” he begged of her, almost singing the words. She nodded again. “I will give you everything, and I will never leave you, if you just sing for me.”_ _

__“Always,” she breathed closing her eyes as she made the promise._ _

__As Erik began to sing, he watched her face turn upward, enthralled and ecstatic. He knew she could hear the sound of love in each note, but not his love. She had heard an angel say he loved her. The angel that had saved her and protected her, that had shown her how to sing and believe, now loved her._ _

__She was transported by the sound of heaven and the voice she adored. She could not and would not hear the voice of a man. She loved a beautiful lie, but behind that mask was just a man who had twisted her faith and trust, and who loved her more than he could even begin to say._ _

__Erik wanted to keep singing to her forever, even when she slipped into an exhausted sleep, curled secure on her couch, her face peaceful and still so full of love. As long as he kept singing, he could be that angel. He could love her from heaven, where he could never hurt her. Perhaps, when he had thought his fascination was only a distraction, or a bout of misguided lust, he could have told himself that he would never try to find a way. When the music ended, the battle would begin._ _

__~_ _

__“I can’t believe you’re here!” Meg cried, making Christine jump in surprise as she turned down a corridor. Meg hated being in the Opera when it was so empty, but her mother was not too far off and the morning’s private instruction with Monsieur LaRoche had been incredibly helpful for her form. “I knew I’d find you here after running off last night.”_ _

__“I thought you said you couldn’t believe I was here,” Christine noted with a wry smile as they moved in the general direction of the foyer. Meg gave her best petulant scowl but it did not seem to be very effective._ _

__“Oh, you know what I mean,” Meg sighed dramatically and Christine gave a warm laugh. She seemed much more at ease than the last time Meg had seen her; in fact she was positively glowing. “I’ve been looking for you.”_ _

__“Why?” Christine asked warily._ _

__“I’m not going to pester you about your patron,” Meg reassured her and Christine gave a grudging smile. “At least not yet. Mother wanted to invite you to Christmas.”_ _

__“Christmas?”_ _

__“Of course if you have somewhere else to go, I understand,” Meg muttered. “I just remembered what you said before about your family being gone. I told mother and the idea of you being alone or worse wandering around here with no one to talk to when you should be some place…cheerful, well it broke her heart!”_ _

__“I’d love it,” Christine answered, placing a gentle hand on Meg’s shoulder to stop her rambling. Meg jumped in excitement._ _

__“Wonderful!” Meg squealed. “I’ll have the entire evening to get you to tell me how you knew him!” Christine rolled her eyes._ _

__“Is that all you can think about, you goose?” Christine chided._ _

__“No, right now I’m also thinking very hard about finding some food,” Meg countered proudly._ _

__“Well that I can help you with,” Christine grinned and grabbed Meg’s wrist. They scuttled through the empty halls, laughing until they reached the kitchen._ _

__“This is useless, no one is here and it’s locked,” Meg lamented and Christine gave her a terribly mischievous look._ _

__“The whole point is that no one is here,” the singer explained. “And I’ve never found this door locked before.” Meg gasped as Christine turned the handle and the kitchen door swung open. She followed her friend as she darted inside. Meg’s mouth remained agape as Christine lit a few of the lights and opened a cupboard filed with pastries. “Don’t look so shocked, these are left over from last night, they’ll just go to waste if we don’t help.”_ _

__“How many times have you done this?” Meg demanded as Christine handed her a tart._ _

__“Enough to know it’s very unlikely I’ll get caught,” Christine answered with a smoky laugh. There was always something about her friend’s laugh that made Meg feel as if she was sharing something very secret and dangerous. Christine hoisted herself onto a counter and crossed her legs as she set into her tart. Meg joined her. “Do you think me wicked?”_ _

__“Very,” Meg confirmed, taking a large bite. “Now, tell me how you know the Vicomte.”_ _

__“I thought you were going to wait until Christmas to torture me,” Christine countered, shaking her head._ _

__“I lied.” The older girl rolled her eyes and took another bite of tart as Meg waited._ _

___“I don’t know him, I _knew__ him, it’s very different,” Christie answered at last. “When we were younger my father and I worked for his family at an estate they visited in the summer. ”  
“Oh, well that’s not very romantic,” Meg pouted.  
“Raoul and I were the same age and we were…friends,” Christine confessed hesitantly. 

__“ _Raoul?_ ” Meg echoed, much more interested now. “What sort of friends?” Christine took another large bite but couldn’t hide her blush. “Goodness! What happened?”_ _

__“We’re from different worlds, Meg. And we were young and stupid,” Christine sighed._ _

__“I bet he remembers you!” Meg squealed. “Maybe he will be at the masquerade on New Years! You must find him!”_ _

__“And how do you suggest I do that when everyone will be in costume?” Christine shot back doubtfully and Meg frowned._ _

__“I’m sure we’ll think of something…”_ _

__“I don’t want to know if he remembers me, Meg, I have…” Christine paused, a strange light dancing in her eyes to match the hesitancy in her face._ _

__“There is someone else! I knew it!” Meg exclaimed._ _

__“It’s not like that,” Christine protested unconvincingly but couldn’t keep the smile from her lips. “It’s…he…it’s very complicated.” Christine jumped down from the counter, wiping her hands and avoiding Meg’s eyes. Meg scurried after her out of the kitchen._ _

__“Christine, please tell…” Meg stopped in her tracks and Christine turned to her curiously. She had obviously not seen the shadow dart away, disappearing like a dream._ _

__“Meg? Are you alright?” Meg swallowed and tried to nod._ _

__“I’m…I…” Meg stammered, staring at the columns where she had seen the apparition. “There was a shadow.”_ _

__“There always is,” Christine replied calmly and Meg finally looked back at her. She was still smiling, even more brightly than before._ _

__“How can you…” Meg sputtered then threw up her hands. “I give up. You are mad.”_ _

__“Yet you still tolerate me?” Christine needled as they made their way through the empty rotunda._ _

__“Someone has to,” Meg lamented and Christine laughed._ _

__Meg tried to join in and ignore that she was sure Christine’s was not the only laughter she heard._ _


	10. Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life becomes more and more complicated at the opera...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter does contain mentions of alcohol use (not abuse) and mature content.

The latest rumor from the Opera came directly from a stagehand that had been fired for suggesting the mess was not his fault. Shaya had listened to the man’s tale in a smoky tavern in St. Germain, far from where the (now former) Opera employee might be spotted talking to him. The man had been glad to recount the tale of the last performance of the year. He had been the last stagehand to leave and had been entrusted with the rather mundane task of securing the flies. Apparently he had either failed or something else had happened that night, for the chaos that had been wrecked upon the flies and the sets below had apparently been spectacular. The stagehand had been blamed and fired summarily the next day, perhaps because he had claimed rather loudly that only a ghost or the devil or both could have done such a thing.

Shaya had dutifully written down the tale in his small black notebook, where so many other tales of the “ghost” were kept. He had noted with interest the fact that a rather large reception for the patrons had been held the same night, and entertained the idea that one of the foolish nobles might have crept into the flies to play a joke. Perhaps one of them had even heard the ghost stories. He doubted it though. What might have prompted his old adversary to cause such havoc after an otherwise well-received performance?

Now Shaya was once again occupied with the rather dull job of watching the comings and goings of the Opera from his preferred perch on the Rue De Scribe. At least he had found a dry, warm spot beneath of the arch of an unused doorway. From there he could see who entered and gauge their countenances and he was also close to a good café where the coffee with milk was always hot and satisfying. 

He liked to keep track of the general flow of life at the Opera Garnier, and was always hopeful that he might catch someone’s eye that would give him a new tale. He had hoped to find out if anyone else had been hearing ghostly duets in the early hours of the morning, but since the stagehand he had had no luck at all with anyone.

It was snowing, which he hated. It made him think too much of home. Even in the depths of winter, Tehran would be hot and crowded and alive, redolent with the scents of cooking meat and sweat, the air full of the shouting of merchants, the whispers of women and the distant call to prayer. Paris in winter was empty and cold and alien. Thinking of home made him remember how and why he could never return. The anger warmed him more than a fire.

The girl had been the only one to enter the Opera so far, he thought dully, as he rubbed his cold hands together. He only knew her face because she had looked at him once after someone had pointed him out, and then looked away. It was the way she had looked at him that had given him pause. He thought of it every time she went into the Opera, alone or with friends. She seemed to spend a great deal of time there, even for an employee. There were some nights she never even came out, though it probably meant she just preferred one of the other exits or he had missed her. 

She was a pretty girl, yet odd in a way he could not quite pin down; and her eyes were thoughtful and clear. There was nothing else about her though that really should have intrigued him, yet he always marked when she arrived. He did not even know her name, he thought as he shivered. Perhaps, if he could ever get past the manager’s declaration he could not enter, he might learn it.

The name of the girl was nothing really, not compared to what he was truly after. Shaya knew something else was happening. The managers seemed more agitated every time they left the Opera in the last month. There were other rumors, nothing like the incident in the flies, but they still caught Shaya’s attention. People talked of the Opera losing money, of the patrons growing discontent and the books being mismanaged. The ministry of fine arts was not pleased. 

His detective’s instincts told him that something was going to happen, and soon, though he could not yet say what. He had fully expected Erik to drive out the fools Debienne and Poligny one day, but why now? 

And why, Shaya asked himself with another deep breath of cold air, did he keep having the ridiculous suspicion it had something to do with the girl?

~

Even though the Opera was ostensibly closed until after New Years, Christine had managed to find her way in. Of course, Erik had been the one to help her, but it pleased him nonetheless to have her close. He had missed her horribly for the two days she had been gone and seeing her was like breathing again. 

He had haunted her steps for hours that day, as she wandered the empty building, watching her explore with quiet curiosity. She had walked freely through the foyer and opulent salons, her fingertips caressing the golden filigree and Venetian tile, thoughtfully observing the painted angels and gods on the ceilings. She had moved languidly, her wonderful, clear eyes taking in each detail. 

But now her eyes were closed. She sat at the edge of the east dance studio. Chill, wintry light was pouring in through the round windows. She had taken her place at the very center of the light, pulling her legs close to her chest like a child. She smiled softly as he came closer to her and it made his heart leap. Her eyes stayed closed, as if she knew he would disappear if she opened them. 

“What are you doing?” he asked softly, lingering behind her in the meager shadows. 

“Listening,” she whispered back, taking a deep breath.

“To what?” She was so beautiful in the light, even though it came through the clouds. 

“To the quiet,” she answered and Erik smiled. “It’s so noisy here during the day usually. There is always music playing, or a story being told, sets being built or repaired, musicians tuning, dancers thudding about, even the clerks, scratching with their pens on paper.”

“I thought I was the only one that heard all of that.”

“You taught me to listen,” she replied warmly, turning her face towards the weak beam of daylight. “Even now, its not entirely silent. There’s the sound of carriages on the street and mice in the walls. And if I am still, I can hear my heart.”

“Is that all?” Erik questioned with equal tenderness. “What about the light? Does it have a sound?”

“Yes.” He narrowed his eyes in surprise, even as Christine rested her head on her knees. “The most beautiful sound in the world. The light is the sound of your voice.” 

“And what does it say?” he asked breathlessly. He watched as the faintest blush darkened her cheeks. “It must say that I love you.”

“No,” Christine countered shyly, gracing him with her perfect, secret smile and making his entire world ache and shine. “It sings.” 

He waited, standing in the shadows as she listened to the quiet, wondering how he had not realized sooner that she was the most extraordinary person he had ever met, and that there was nothing in this world he wanted more than to be close to her. Her smiled broadened as he finally began to sing, a snippet of _Tristan and Isolde._

“ _The light, the light…how long before it is extinguished_?”

~

Debienne pulled the bottle from lowest drawer in the desk. He did not recall it being so empty the last time he had pulled it out. God, was the ghost getting to his brandy now? He gave a sick laugh as he lifted the bottle to his lips.

He swallowed quickly at the sound of an impatient knock at the office door. Surely Poligny would not be knocking. The man was spending time with his family any way, wasn’t he? Lucky bastard; to have a wife that could bear to see him. Of course he had left Debienne to deal with the Phantom’s latest punishment. How could the specter have done it…

The knock came again and he quickly stowed the bottle and stumbled towards the door. He wished he had taken a few more sips of brandy when he saw the face on the other side.

“Monsieur Debienne, have you any idea how difficult it was to get inside today?” Philippe De Chagny demanded, his usual good humor markedly absent.

“My deepest apologies, Monsieur Le Comte!” Debienne groveled immediately. 

The Comte strode into the office without waiting to be invited and Debienne realized that the patron was not alone. A handsome young man, with hair of the same warm brown as the Comte’s, trailed the older man with a rather distracted expression.

“I’m sure you can guess the reason for my visit, Monsieur.” The manager gulped as the Comte stared at him. “The masquerade, man, the whole city is talking about it!”

“Philippe, it is just a party,” the younger gentleman protested gallantly.

“Oh, is it Raoul?” the Comte snapped back. So this was the newly returned Vicomte everyone had been talking about. Debienne had wanted to meet the young man at the gala a week before but he had disappeared from the reception rather unexpectedly. “You’ve been going on about it for a week, hoping that chorus girl you hallucinated will be there.” 

The young man blushed furiously. “Well, I’m sure there is a good reason for the cancellation, even if it is a tradition,” the Vicomte muttered.

“ _Ca-cancellation_?” Debienne echoed in dread. He had been considering it, and Poligny had yelled something to the same effect but no decision had been made! New Year’s eve was only two days away…

“I understand that there has been trouble with the books,” the Comte accused in the face of Debienne’s pale silence. “But to cancel the thing without even consulting the patrons and just let it be published in _Epoque_!”

“Published!” Debienne cried and both men drew back. Debienne felt like there was a vice around his heart. “In…in _Epoque_?”

“And _Le Figaro_ ,” the younger man added helpfully and Debienne gave another gasp.

“You seem surprised,” the Comte remarked, his eyebrows high. “Did Monsieur Poligny make the announcement without your input?”

“It would seem so…” Debienne panted, turning from the men and leaning on the desk.

“Are you quite alright, Monsieur?” the brother asked sincerely. 

“I’m fine, sir,” Debienne lied, trying to think through the disaster. First the money, and now this! 

A commotion in the hall thankfully drew the nobles’ attention away. Debienne had only a moment to be relieved before Poligny burst into the office, his collar separating from his shirt and his gray hair wild.

“Guillame!” Debienne exclaimed, fear turning to fury. “I demand to know…”

“Herbert!” Poligny bellowed at the same time. “What is the meaning…” 

“Gentlemen!” the young Vicomte interjected and both managers grew quiet and pale. Raoul De Chagny swallowed bravely. “Obviously there has been a great misunderstanding.”

“You just worked that out did you, brother?” the Comte sneered. He took his brother by the arm and began to lead him from the office. “This is for these fools to deal with.”

“Yes, we do appreciate your concern,” Debienne murmured, once more longing for the bottle hidden in his desk.

“Wait,” the young man protested, twisting from his brother’s grasp and darting towards the managers. “I wanted to ask, is there a singer in the company by the name…”

“Raoul!” the Comte barked and grabbed his brother again, yanking him roughly towards the door. “Enough of this foolishness, we have told you…” Debienne lost the rest of the reprimand as the Comte slammed the office door behind them.

“How could you cancel the masquerade without consulting me!” Poligny demanded angrily the moment the sound of voices faded. Debienne’s eyes grew wide.

“Me? I had nothing to do with it…” He leaned back against the desk, dizzy with confusion. If Poligny had not cancelled… 

“Good lord, how could he?” Poligny gasped, his face ashen. 

“We couldn’t have afforded it anyway with what he’s taken…” Debienne sighed and his partner grew even paler.

“What have we done, Herbert? Why is he doing this now? We’ve obeyed everything…” Poligny groaned.

“I have no idea,” Debienne answered, staggering back to his chair and reaching for the bottle of brandy again. He took a long, deep sip and looked back up the Poligny. “I just don’t know.”

~

Christine felt like she was the only one in a good mood at the first rehearsal of the New Year. The cold air was suffused with muttered complaints as thick as the familiar scent of rosin, greasepaint and sawdust mingled with the dank, musty odor that seeped from below the stage. 

Christine was staying close to one of the little braziers that had been set up in the wings and towards the back of the massive stage, along with a few other singers. They were all warming their frozen hands and complaining about the temperature, inside and out. Musicians hated the cold. The orchestra complained that it made their instruments go out of tune and the singers traipsed about with their precious throats swathed in yards of scarves and fur. Even Christine’s staid fashion sense had to adjust to winter. She had bought, secondhand of course, a caplet of deep green wool with a demure little hood. It matched the gloves and scarf Meg had bought her for Christmas. 

Christine looked up to the group of women around the glowing coals, making sure that no one had asked her any question while she had let her mind wander.

“I still can’t believe they canceled masquerade!” Jeanette, the chestnut-haired, tall mezzo who had loaned Christine the awful yellow dress lamented.

“They said they couldn’t afford it!” an older contralto grumbled.

“Well, they’re not going to get more money by canceling things like that,” Adele muttered from the other side of the brazier. “The patrons are utterly beside themselves that they were denied a party. They’ll never get anything if they don’t give something first,” Adele continued, sending Christine a rather sharp look. She had not quite forgiven the younger singer for disappearing from the party two weeks before and had remained rather sour since.

“I heard that Poligny has been taken ill,” a deep voice interjected from behind the group of women. It was Charles, a huge bass with long hair and a dour expression. “The ghost has finally broken him.”

“Or Carlotta,” Christine countered. Everyone laughed quietly, which made things a bit warmer. 

“You know, I wish the ghost would just lock her in her dressing room some night,” Jeanette grumbled, casting a look over her shoulder to where Carlotta sat by her own brazier on the other side of the stage, attended by Ledour and her shaking maid. She was wrapped almost head to toe in beautiful furs and was doing her best to appear both exhausted and important.

“He’s tried, she always gets out,” Adele groused. Christine grinned, imagining the scene.

“I wish he’d try it now,” Jeanette suggested and the group smiled. 

It only lasted a moment since the directors were telling the chorus to clear the stage for the beginning of Act 2. It was the first time the _Rigoletto_ had been rehearsed with the orchestra and blocking, and the day had been slow work so far. From where she watched with her fellow chorus members in the wings, Christine wondered if the conductor had decided to take a break in advance of Carlotta’s first aria in order to give himself some extra rest before the great battle began. Christine and the other singers of the chorus retreated further in to the wings and braced themselves.

It only took a few bars of “Caro Nome” before the conductor stopped. Bosarge had conducted for years at the old Opera on the Rue La Peletier and was in his sixties at least, but was trim and spry for his age. His crisp white hair and goatee were immaculately maintained and served only to increase the glint in his sky blue eyes. He was a fiercely intelligent and patient man, and was well liked among the company, and even, it was rumored, respected by the phantom himself. The only person who did not respect him was Carlotta.

“Madame, the composer has marked this section specifically as _staccato_ , if you please,” Bosarge instructed Carlotta calmly. 

“I believe it will be better, _legato_ , Maestro,” Carlotta replied tensely, her face already filling with indignation.

“So you may believe, Madame, but we must respect the music,” Bosarge countered, patient but firm. Christine wished she had not seen enough of Carlotta’s fits and furies to find the confrontation tiresome.

“Then you are either reading the score wrong or the composer was simply wrong in writing it that way!” Carlotta hissed back, her accent weakening. “It sounds better my way.”

“If you would listen to the music, and not the simpering of your admirers, you would know that is not true,” Bosarge stated coolly. 

Adele, who stood with a few other singers between her and Christine, made the mistake of laughing aloud. Carlotta spun around furiously.

“Are you amused, you painted trollop?” Carlotta growled, advancing on Adele. The chatter of the company grew markedly in volume. Carlotta came within a foot of Adele, staring her down with acid in her gaze. For the first time Christine had ever seen, Adele looked truly worried. “I can’t get rid of the old man, but I certainly can…”

“Leave her alone.” Christine was amazed at how silent the entire stage and auditorium became as she spoke the words, her voice low and threatening.

“Ah, the _seamstress_ ,” Carlotta sneered, turning her attention from Adele. Adele, like the rest of the company was focused on Christine. “Don’t you ever learn your lesson, little girl?”

“As I recall, you’ve never been successful in teaching one, old woman,” Christine replied instantly through a defiant smile. “Why don’t you do as your conductor says and pay attention to the music? If you require some assistance reading the score, I should be very happy to help you.”

The silence stretched out, leaving Christine to wonder if Carlotta would strike her this time. Then, someone began to laugh, very quietly. It was a cold, dark laughter that perhaps only Christine and few others truly recognized, but it was only alone for a moment. Someone else had joined, and another. Now Bosarge was laughing, and Adele as well. The entire company was laughing and Carlotta was going pale in helpless anger. She advanced closer to Christine, her eyes deadly.

“I will destroy you one day, you little toad,” Carlotta growled low in her throat.

“Oh, Signora,” Christine answered, unwavering. “I should dearly like to see you try.” 

The diva pursed her lips in fury and spun away, returning to her place at the center of the stage as the laughter finally faded.

“Once more, Madame, as we discussed,” Bosarge commanded. For a fleeting second he looked to Christine with the slightest smile on his lips. “Begin.”

Carlotta did not seem to be in a mood to argue any further as rehearsal continued. Christine found herself staring towards box five rather than watch the singer. Sometimes listening to her was almost painful. She would try to listen to the orchestra below the diva’s voice instead and imagine herself singing Verdi’s rapturous music. 

And when the duke’s voice rose to join Gilda’s Christine did not hear Carlos Fontana, she heard only her angel.

 

Erik had watched most of the rehearsal from high above in the empty flies, unable to tear himself away, even though it meant listening to Carlota “sing.” The sound of her screeching had become almost intolerable to him in the New Year. Nothing compared to the sound of Christine’s voice when she sang for him with a heart full of love. Though her moment of defiance had been incredibly beautiful and compelling as well.

He listened to the final act; rather sad that it would be a bit too obvious to actually have Carlotta stuffed in a sack and stabbed, as her character was about to be. It was a better use of time to lean against the massive gears of the stage machinery above in the dark and watch Christine. She could not have stood out to him more if she had been walking backwards. He enjoyed moments like this, when he could watch her from afar, simply adoring her, safe from the dreams and desire that came in the night.

It was strange: in the weeks since he had realized the true nature of what he felt, the change that had come over him had been very different from what he had expected. It was true that the longing for her, to touch her, to take her, grew more relentless each night. But there was something about _loving_ her that – at least sometimes – soothed the pain. There were moments when nothing mattered but her: the first time he saw her each day, when she sang, or when she looked at him and smiled. She made the world so full of light, and for those first few seconds, it did not burn. 

He would think of her light when he returned home alone, and remembering those moments was enough to bring him some semblance of peace, at least enough to steal a few hours’ sleep. He had other distractions at the moment as well. The managers were fading quickly. Very soon, new ears and clear minds might control the Opera; men who Carlotta had not yet had a chance to corrupt. The humiliation Christine had caused her would not be forgotten by the diva, but by the time Carlotta might take action, it would be too late.

At last the company was excused and finally dispersed. As he stole carefully down from his aerie above the stage, he could already see a group gathered around Christine. The other chorus members, especially the friend she had defended from Carlotta’s wrath, were trying to pull her away with them, as he had expected.

“Come on, Christine!” someone was entreating. “Half the opera wants to toast you!”

“I’ll be there in a minute, I just have to get something,” his pupil excused herself hesitantly. The group nodded and scowled as one, muttering that they would wait at the door. It had not been a very good excuse, Erik noted, Christine was already bundled up to leave; like the other singers she had brought her gloves, scarf and cloak to rehearsal with her to guard against the inescapable cold of the stage. 

She turned down the corridor that would take her to her dressing room. He moved silently to follow her down the dark corridor.

“Christine,” he whispered from the shadows, hidden in an alcove a few feet behind her. She froze and took a deep breath. The only gaslight that remained lit was ahead of her in the hall, so that when she turned her face, looking downward, he could see her profile silhouetted against the dim glow.

“Angel…” she breathed, a faint smile barely visible on her face in the dark. “I don’t want to leave.”

“You should go with them,” Erik told her, cutting her off and trying to hide the regret in his voice. “Celebrate your triumph. I cannot always keep you from the world.” 

“Sometimes I wish you would,” Christine whispered, soft as a dream. “I don’t understand that world, I don’t know if I belong there. I want to be with you…” 

Erik closed his eyes, memorizing the words. She was not making this easy. “You were fantastic today, Christine,” he told her, loving the taste of her name and the memory of her fire. “You should be with those that see that. Soon, you will need allies like them.”

“Soon?” Christine asked hopefully. 

He smiled despite himself. “Very soon.” He opened his eyes again and listened to the sound of her breath in the dark, feeling the faint warmth of her closeness. It had been so long since he had been this near to her while she was awake. “Very soon, no one will even remember Carlotta. Very soon, everything will change.”

“Everything?” she echoed, entranced.

“Carlotta’s voice is empty, soulless, just like her. But no one cares because they do not hear. The patrons don’t come to see her, they come to see each other; the rest of the audience does not know better,” he told her, drifting closer to her, helpless against the pull. He saw her body tensing in awareness, but she did not turn around. “But when you sing, they will know; they will understand the true beauty of our music, my Christine.” 

He watched as she closed her eyes, her head tilting back toward the shadows where he hid, mere inches from her. His heart was beating too fast and he could feel it through his entire body. 

He could reach out and touch her now and she would not run, a dangerous voice inside him whispered and every inch of him ached for her in response. The pull towards her was as intoxicating as the dream of Paris bowing down before his creation, worshipping the voice that belonged to him. 

“Soon you will sing for me, and the world will listen,” he continued, barely audible, but certain she would hear every dark, seductive word. “You will sing for me and I will give you all you ever dreamed of,” he whispered in her ear, his desire for her rushing in his blood. He was certain that if he had not been wearing the mask he would have felt her hair brush his face.

“When?” she demanded breathlessly, her voice catching in her throat. “Please tell me when. When will I be ready?” There was longing in her voice; to one who had grown to know want and yearning so well in the past months, it was unmistakable, but it was not longing for the stage. 

He could hear her breath quickening and felt it through the air as her body shuddered, so incredibly, tortuously close to his. She could feel him and there was a part of her as impatient as he to reach across the final inches of shadow that separated them…but it was not time yet. He could not surrender yet. 

With more effort than he thought possible, Erik tore himself away from her. He heard her gasp as the moment was broken. He drew back into the shadows, unable to look away from her as he fought the sudden intense pain of separation. He struggled to still his breath and calm his furious body. 

“Very soon,” he answered, trying to hold back the tension in his voice. “Until then, you must continue to trust me,” he amended, seeing the look of disappointment on her face. 

“I trust you, my angel,” she replied instantly. She seemed almost as breathless as he was, and though it was hard to tell in the darkness, her pale cheeks seemed flushed. “I know you would never lie to me. I’ll sing for you,” she promised ardently. “Only you.” 

“Go now, return for your lesson tomorrow,” he commanded, trying to regain composure and ignore her words. 

“Until then,” Christine murmured, turning back down the hall to join her compatriots. 

Erik had hidden himself before she even had a chance to catch sight of him. He learned against the wall of his hiding place in complete darkness listening to the retreat of her footsteps.  
It had to happen soon, he told himself again. He could not fight and suffer this way for much longer, but that meant everything would have to change. He did not have a plan, not really, but if she became a great diva, if he made all her dreams come true, then perhaps he would have a chance to…what? Tell her? Be with her? Yes, perhaps once she saw what he had done for her, and given her, perhaps she might understand. 

No, she would never understand, the cold voice of reason that he heard less and less chided. Well, then perhaps seeing her beloved by all of Paris might make the desire for her, or even his love for her, stop and at last he could let her go for good. How though, when even the thought of giving her up made his soul twist in grief? 

He sank to the ground in the dark, unable even to move as the battle of lust, anger, pain, reason and love waged within him. There had been desire in her voice too; he had not just dreamed that. But another memory cut at those dreams like cold steel. _I trust you, my angel_ , she had whispered to the darkness. 

I know you would never lie to me. 

How much longer before he was willing to forget that?

~

“He’ll be here soon, you probably need to make your escape,” Adele told Christine with a wicked smile, taking another sip of the wine she had borrowed from Madame Valerius’ sleeping hands. 

The old woman was snoring quite loudly in her usual place by the fire. Christine and Adele were huddled together on a threadbare couch, their shawls still wrapped around them.

“I’ll be gone, don’t worry,” Christine scowled, not relishing the thought of returning to her cold little room. It was so much warmer here by the fire, listening to Adele’s gossip and stealing Valerius’ wine. She certainly did not want to be alone with her thoughts tonight.

“Now, where was I…oh yes, you were finally going to tell me who your lover is,” Adele grinned. Christine rolled her eyes in mock exhaustion. 

“The King of Spain,” Christine answered peevishly and Adele gave a dark, seductive laugh. Christine laughed with her, thinking back on the night. 

The chorus had been quite surprised when she actually emerged from the Opera to join them. They must have assumed she was flushed from running, though Adele had given her a suspicious look. They had retreated through the snow to a popular cafe just off the Avenue de L’Opera, where she had been toasted several times. She had tried to focus her thoughts on the deep, robust taste of the roast duck and winter vegetables they all had shared. 

Keeping her emotions and thoughts in control had proved much harder after they had brought out the absinthe. It had been the first time she had tried it since she had come to Paris, though from the stories she had heard at the conservatoire one would think it flowed freer than water in the great city.

She had liked the verdant, anise taste of the spirit, suffused with sugar and water in the little glass. Perhaps the clear-headed, free feeling it had given her was why she had talked more than usual. Or perhaps it was the fact that others were smiling at her with more kindness, or at least respect. They had told stories, mostly about Carlotta, some about the ghost and others about various escapades at the Opera for what seemed like hours. 

Finally, she and Adele had stumbled back home, the frosty night air stinging their red cheeks and the taste of the absinthe still on their tongues. 

Of course for Adele, such a celebration never ended so early. Valerius’ cheap red was a welcome contrast to the clear, singing intoxication from the absinthe. Adele had told Christine, after sharing a few sips from the bottle, that her patron was coming to visit her that night. 

It was not the first time Christine had heard of a man sneaking in to the Hotel St. Claude, but it was the first time someone had mentioned it aloud. There were certain unspoken rules that Christine had learned – never ask a name, never look a man in the eyes or remember his face. Just smile and wink the next morning. 

“You know, Antoine has mentioned the Vicomte De Chagny,” Adele told Christine slyly, watching the younger woman’s face for a reaction. 

Christine hoped the flush from the spirits was enough to hide the blush.

“Who?” she asked insincerely, trying to sound more sober than she was.

“Raoul De Chagny, the beautiful boy you saw at the reception,” Adele reminded her with a playful and ineffective shove to her shoulder. “If that’s who you’ve set your sights on, I certainly respect you ambition.”

“Adele…” Christine groaned, letting her head fall back dramatically. She had tried very hard not to think about Raoul in the past weeks. She told herself that she didn’t need to; she had a love safer and greater than any he could ever offer. That was, of course, if he even remembered her at all, which she doubted. 

“Well, no one’s snatched him up yet,” Adele shrugged, ignoring Christine’s frustration. “And he certainly would be a good choice to keep you warm on cold nights like these. I hear he has an enormous…”

“ _Adele_!” Christine gasped, burying her flushed face in her hands. 

“Amount of money!” Adele cackled. “God, I think you may actually be telling the truth about not having a lover, you do blush like a virgin.” 

Christine glared up at Adele through her fingers. It had not even been close to the worst thing she had heard Adele say, but the wine and the memory of a darkened corridor and words whispered in her ear made talk of lovers so much more real tonight. The thoughts and feelings she had been fighting back were lurking in the dark, just outside of where she could see, waiting for her to turn around and touch them…

“Do you love him?” Christine asked abruptly, her head jerking back up and causing the world to spin. Adele was too puzzled to notice Christine trying to catch her breath.

“Who? Antoine? God no!” Adele laughed, confusing Christine enough to distract her again. “You think just because I’m fucking him that I’m in love? Do you think I’m that stupid?”

“No, not at all…” Adele shook her head at Christine’s naïveté. 

“Do you know what happens to a girl thick enough to fall in love?” Adele continued, visibly disgusted at the thought. “It destroys her. She thinks that her lover will marry her, or save her from her terrible life. She will follow him and hang upon him until he can’t bear it. And when he casts her off, and you know he will, she is so broken and pathetic that you can’t even look at her. Haven’t you learned enough from all those damn operas? Love kills.” Adele lectured bluntly, as Christine swallowed, her heart slowing.

“I know,” Christine muttered, looking down.

“Never fall in love, friend,” Adele continued, suddenly utterly serious and sober. “Make the fools love you, make them say they’ll follow you to the ends of the earth; but don’t _ever_ fall in love. That way you can rule them, but never lose yourself.”

“You don’t have to worry about me, Adele,” Christine reassured her friend, still avoiding her eyes. 

A soft knock came at the door before either could continue. Adele’s eyes narrowed as a brazen grin filled her lovely face.

“Go! He likes to think no one knows he comes to see me here,” Adele ordered and Christine obeyed. She sprang up the stairs and to her room. 

The sudden movement made the world spin even faster as she made it to the dull little chamber. Once the door was closed she tried to concentrate on lighting every candle she had, as well as the oil lamp, to drive away her thoughts as much as the cold.

It wasn’t enough. Even the light and shadows made her think of him and catch her breath again. She leaned back against the door, closing her eyes tightly and trying to steady herself. 

What had happened in the darkness, when he had spoken to her of making the world listen? It had not been his words that had made her blood race; it had been something _else_ , something in the sound of his voice. 

Christine turned to her door, making sure to lock it. She could hear Adele and Antoine making their way up the stairs. She tried to stop herself from listening, but the spirits in her blood made that nearly impossible.

“I’m been thinking about you all day…” Antoine was whispering hungrily. 

“Have you been? How flattering,” Adele teased with a laugh like honey. 

“Tell me you’ve spent all day wanting me too,” he ordered, but there was something plaintive in his cool voice. He really did want to hear that she wanted him.

“Of course, I can think of nothing else,” Adele whispered back. If she was lying, Christine could not hear it in the muffled voice on the other side of her door. “It’s all I can do to not take you right here…”

There were no more words that Christine could hear, only the sound of rustling skirts and heavy breath as the two lovers stole into Adele’s room. Christine drew back from where she had been leaning against the door, trying to compose herself. She should not be listening, she reprimanded herself again as she sat resolutely on her hard bed. 

She tried to keep that resolve as she clumsily removed her shoes and crawled under the covers. It was too cold to take anything else off. She huddled under the sheets and told herself again not to listen or think or dream. 

_Soon you will sing for me, and the world will listen._

The memory of his voice came unbidden, despite her determination. She had to be dreaming now, she told herself, because she could swear she heard the same emotion in the memory of his voice as in another whisper she had just heard: desire. That was impossible, though. 

_You will sing for me and I will give you all you ever dreamed of_ … 

But what did he dream of? Was it her? Did he ache and dream as she did? Could he possibly know what she felt in the darkness without him?

Christine sighed, turning her body in the cold bed, giving herself over to the thought of him and letting it embrace her. The very air around her had been alive with longing. She had felt it before, in stolen moments before her mirror when the glass reflected her bare flesh and she knew with shame and excitement that he could see. Yet, those moments had been nothing compared to what she felt when he whispered to her of triumph. Every inch of her skin had been awake and full of anticipation, and beneath each inch, her heart had been pounding.   
It still was.

Christine turned restlessly onto her back, listening to the faint sounds from Adele’s side of the wall. The absinthe and wine had left her as helpless to her curiosity as she was to her memories and dreams. A soft sigh, the wet sound of a kiss, the rustle of sheets, a deep moan; each sound served only to sharpen the memory. How she knew she could not say, but she had been so sure that if she had wanted and believed hard enough, that, in that moment, she could have reached out into the shadows and touched him. The very thought made her shiver. She wrapped her arms around herself in the dark, trying to steady the sudden feeling of falling.

Her blood was rushing, emboldened by the wine and driven by her pounding heart. She was suddenly so warm and yet she shivered again. Adele moaned on the other side of the wall and Christine felt her hands release their grip on her arms as if by their own volition. What would it have felt like; to be touched by him, by the darkness? 

Tentatively, she let her hands caress her breasts, surprised that they were aching. It was not enough, not remotely enough, her body answered. She listened to the sounds of movement from Adele’s bed and let her cold fingers slide under the fabric of her neckline. She heard his voice singing to her, a mysterious song in a language she didn’t know, as she felt her taut nipple between her fingers and grasped desperately at the flesh of her breast. A soft sigh escaped her even as Adele moaned once more, hidden from sight.

It was still not enough, she thought distantly as she fumbled with the buttons of her dress, her other hand still kneading her breast. She could hear him calling her name, saying how he loved her. His love would never lie to her, never hurt her and his voice in the dark promised that even her most terrible, heathen wishes of her angel could be true. Her heart was beating even harder, but the pulse was lower than where her hands were. 

Her hands trailed down her body, ignoring the faint cries of shame and madness in the back of her mind; past her ribs, past her stomach, to the place where she was aching madly for _more._

The dream of him took her over as her hand pressed between her legs. He could be with her. How could she feel this if it was not possible? She could save him, if she could just find him. The sounds beyond the wall were louder now, bolder, as the lovers’ passion continued to rise. She could be bold too, Christine thought perilously. If she was brave, she could have everything. 

She gathered her skirts around her hips, her nails grazing the skin of her thighs. This time, when her hand found its eager way to the place where her heart beat between her legs, she was the one to moan.

His voice was singing in her ear. If she just turned around, she could find him. She turned her body, in her bed and in her dreams. She lay on her stomach and her hand worked curiously and determinedly, knit amongst coarse hair and supple, warm flesh. In her mind, she still could not find him. 

She was running, racing after him down corridor after empty corridor. She could hear his voice still, even over the increasing volume of Adele’s cries of pleasure. She ran, harder and faster just as her fingers moved with more desperate urgency. Tremors of strange ecstasy that only served to increase her aching for him pulsed through her body and she cried out into the dark, muffling the sound in her pillow. Each time she thought she had found him he disappeared again. Faster and deeper they went, deeper than she had ever been, to some place forbidden, wet and dark.

He was there, staring at her with his ocean eyes from behind the mask. He didn’t need to hide from her though; he knew that. She could save him from the dark. She loved him and she could release him. When she did, they would be free: of darkness and the dangers of mortal love. She would never lose him, if she could just see beyond the mask. 

A movement of her hand, a quiet cry and the mask was gone…and his face was more beautiful than she had ever dared to dream and yet it was so familiar. It was Raoul’s perfect face, but with her angel’s eyes and glowing with heavenly light. 

Christine cried out in wonder and rapture, so insanely close to finally reaching that unknown place that would make everything real. His face was so bright she could not longer see his features. The light was blinding: an explosion of fire. Someone was crying out, in pain or pleasure, she could not tell. Something was shaking and shivering, far away yet so close…and in the light there was another face, also familiar. It was full of reproach and disappointment.

_Never love, Christine._

She sprang up and her hand flew away in shock. She covered her ears instinctively against the sounds the lovers reaching their peak, finding something she had lost or would never have. But her father’s voice in her head was louder.

_No matter what, never love, my child. Love me, love the angels and love music, but never love anything that will leave you._

She could still see him, sitting by the fire in a moment of melancholy, looking at her face and trying not to see the woman he had lost. She had never understood how the man who told her to believe in angels and fairytales could be so consumed with regret and loss. Or at least, she had not understood until the day he died.

Christine fell back on to her side, trying to breathe and ignore the longing that persisted in her foolish flesh. She felt as if she had crashed to the ground from a great height, knocking the wind out of her. 

Why had she remembered those words in that moment? Surely the love of her angel was what her father wanted for her? 

Christine closed her eyes tightly, pushing back the answer. It had been because of something else she had felt in the shadows and heard in her angel’s voice: darkness. Not beautiful darkness that would sweep her away and dissolve into shining light when unmasked, but true darkness that went on and on. The darkness of death and ghosts and stories told in hushed, fearful whispers. She had heard something that had been as terrifying as it had been alluring. It had been the reason she had not turned around. She had known as certainly as she breathed that she could touch her angel, but the sense that if she did so, everything would be lost, haunted her like a phantom. 

_Very soon, everything will change._

Why did that promise frighten her so?

~

Erik leaned against the frame of the mirror on his side of the glass, weary from another night without her. He had tried composing, but each effort had turned into a duet with one voice missing. As usual he had barely slept, tossed between remembrances of her as she was and the fantasy of what she could be. The memory of her body inches from his, the scent of her skin so close had made the dreams that much more sweet and terrible. 

Would having her really be so much better? If he ever truly touched her, would a fantasy ever satisfy him after that? Wouldn’t it be worse to never know even a second of release again? He shook his head at the very thought. He would make the trade in a second, if it meant one moment in her arms.

She was late this morning. It made him regret letting her leave even more. What if she had met someone? What if that boy had been there? 

The sound of the door opening on the other side of the glass made Erik’s heart jump. 

She looked almost as tired as he felt. Her face was red from the cold, but her eyes were shadowed and she moved more slowly than usual. She lit the gaslights carefully and removed her caplet and gloves. She was wearing the same red dress with black buttons she had worn yesterday, but it was a bit more wrinkled. He hoped she had only slept in it because of the cold.

“I know I’m late. I’m sorry,” Christine murmured, not even waiting for him to speak.

“Are you alright?” 

He was greatly relieved when she smiled and his world blazed with light.

“Adele just kept me up too late,” she excused herself, rather shyly. “And I never sleep very well, when I’m not here.” 

Erik fought back the urge to tell her he shared her feeling, reminding himself that angels did not sleep.

“Why is that?” 

“I feel safe here, when I know you are watching me,” she told the mirror with another luminous look of love and devotion. He had already known the answer, but he adored hearing her say it.

“I’m always with you,” he promised her, wishing it were true.

“In my heart, yes,” Christine replied, taking a seat on the little couch across from the mirror. Her face was thoughtful and beautiful and she was staring at the glass in such a way that if the mirror had not been there, she would have been looking directly into his eyes. “I dreamed of you though.”

“Of me?” Erik echoed, flattered and again regretful that he could not tell her that his every dream, sleeping or waking, was of her.   
“Yes.” 

Was she blushing? Erik shook his head, trying to push away the idea that she had dreams even remotely similar to his. 

“I dream of you every night.” 

“And what do you dream of when you are awake?” Erik continued as his heart crystallized a new memory to return to in the darker hours. 

Christine considered the question for a long moment, as did Erik. He had promised to make all her dreams come true, but had never asked her directly what those dreams were. Like so many of his promises, it had been rather ill considered.

“I guess I dream of you then too: of singing for you, of the next time I will hear your voice. I used to dream about the Opera, before I found you.” There was a trace of regret in her words and face, but it disappeared when she looked back to the mirror.

“Did you dream of becoming a great diva?” Erik asked inquisitively. 

“Of course,” she replied bashfully to Erik’s relief. “But you said that will be real soon, so I wouldn’t really call it a dream. I do dream about how wonderful it will be to sing for you on that stage and make the world hear…And I wish I could see Carlotta’s face when it happens.” Erik laughed quietly as she grinned. “And it wouldn’t be so bad to have all those lovely things Carlotta has either…”

“Lovely things?” 

“Not jewels and silks,” Christine corrected humbly. “Just a few of those things rich people take for granted; hot meals everyday and a big soft bed. Maybe a real house, or even just a flat: full of lovely books and a real bath with running water. That would be wonderful,” she sighed happily at the thought and Erik smiled. “I could sit in hot water for hours and read all day.” 

“Is that all you want, a flat with a bath and a library?” 

“I wish there was such a place in the Opera, so I would never have to leave.” 

Erik fought the urge to tell her just to ask for such a thing and he would give it to her in an instant. Thankfully she was continuing, her face wistful. 

“I guess what I’ve really always dreamed of is a real home. When I was growing up we never stopped moving, so no place really felt like home, until I came here. And there we are again – I don’t need to dream of a home or baths or books; you’ve already given me all of that.” He basked in the love and gratitude in her smile but the glow faded quickly. 

“What about the future?” he tried not to let his voice falter as he asked the question whose answer he was so frightened to hear. “What about a family or a husband; a life outside of all of this?” _What about love? Do you dream of leaving me_?

“No,” she answered with a shrug. “I mean, I used to dream about getting married and all those silly things I’m supposed to want. There was one boy…” She shook her head, blushing a bit and Erik’s insides seized up in jealousy. “If there was ever anyone to dream of, it would have be him…It was him. But he’s forgotten me.”

“How can you be sure?” Erik asked tightly.

“I think he would have found me by now,” Christine answered with a guileless shrug. “I saw him after a performance, a few weeks ago. His brother is a patron.” 

Erik’s firsts contracted in the shadows. She was talking about the boy who had made her smile.

“That’s for the best then, the patrons are dangerous.” Christine’s brows rose in surprise. “They care nothing for the music, you know that. You _must_ stay away from them. Especially him.”

“Of course,” she agreed quietly. Erik tried to slow his frantic breath, the thought of losing her to one of them searing his brain. “You must be married to music, nothing else.”

“I know,” she reassured him, her eyes tender as they gazed at the glass. “I don’t want that, not anymore. I just want you and your music.” 

Erik sighed in relief.  
“I can give you that…” Erik whispered, so softly he was not even sure if she could hear. He began to sing to her, the strange secret melody that was hers alone. There was more she dreamed of, he could see it in her eyes, even as she closed them in ecstasy.

“ _Brionglóid a bheith agat mise, muirnín, brionglóid d’oíche; Dream of me, my sweet one, in the darkness of the night. The light is cruel and cold there, but here, you’ll hear my voice. Dream of me, my darling, forever; dream and you will be mine…_ ” 

~

Debienne was screaming at his helpless clerk in absolute rage. The books were off again, it seemed. 

“You bloody fool!” the man bellowed. Even just listening to his voice, one could imagine veins protruding on his balding head as his face grew redder and redder.

“But, sir, I swear…I went over it twice last night! The numbers have been changed!” the feeble young man whimpered. “It was the…”

“Don’t you dare say it boy! Don’t you even _dare_!” Debienne roared and even the floorboards below him seemed to vibrate. “Get out, you thieving imbecile!” 

The clerk beat a hasty retreat to the door, but his manager kept on his heels, shouting down the hall after him so that perhaps the entire Opera could hear. 

“And if I hear one more word about that goddamn ghost I swear it will be the end of someone! _What do you want_?!” His voice did not lower in volume to question whoever it was at his door, most likely they were cowering in shock and terror.

“Monsieur Poligny sent me with this letter…” the messenger stuttered.

“Well, read it then!” Debienne ordered furiously, striding heavily back into the office. The messenger crept after him carefully, obviously not excited about sharing the missive. He was very likely unaware that among the other catastrophes of the day that Debienne had misplaced his spectacles. “Get on with it!” 

“He writes that…h-he is s-ss-sorry to tell you that…he can no longer…”

“Louder, boy,” Debienne growled impatiently, taking a seat in his creaking chair.

“He can no longer serve in his position at the Opera and had tendered his resignation effective immediately,” the messenger blurted out as fast as he could possibly speak.

“He’s WHAT?” Debienne howled, jumping back onto his feet. “When did he send this? Did you see him? Why?” Debienne demanded irately, advancing on the quivering messenger.

“His wife wrote it this morning, sir! She was quite upset!” the boy cried. “I saw him though! He was in no state to talk, sir. He was in bed and would shriek at any sound! He said he had seen a ghost! That the devil himself had sent some ghost to torment him for all his sins!”

Debienne’s silence was palpable. It was easy to imagine the man’s oily face draining of color, his own words suddenly whispered in his ear.

“ _What was that you said, sir…one more word about the ghost and it will be the end of someone? Who will it be the end of_?”

“Boy…” Debienne called the messenger’s attention to him weakly. “I need you to take some messages for me too. Tell the minister of fine arts I resign as well. And take another to Messieurs Firmin Richard and Armand Moncharmin. Tell those fools that if they want this cursed place, they can have it.”

In the darkness below, Erik smiled. 

At last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you were wondering, the language Erik sings in is Irish Gaelic.


	11. Crescendo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The new managers of the Opera arrive, as does the day Christine and her angel have been waiting for.

Christine had never seen so many people in one place at the Opera when there was not a performance. Nearly every employee had been summoned for the formal introduction of the new managers. It was minutes until they were to arrive, so most people, Christine included, were still taking a few idle moments to enjoy the opulence of the grand foyer, a part of the Opera they so rarely saw, before the show began. They could all very easily pretend they were in a palace out of a fairytale, surrounded by marble of pink, gold and black as paintings of gods looked down from the ceiling above, flanking the square skylight that let in the pale mid-winter sun. 

Christine was perched in a gallery, one level above the huge grand staircase, imagining what the scene would look like tonight when the audience arrived for the great gala performance of _Faust_. It would probably be even more crowded, and the people would be dressed better and laughing less. The levels of gossip however would doubtless be unchanged. 

The Opera had been buzzing with rumors for two weeks regarding the circumstances of Debienne and Poligny’s sudden retirement and the appointment of a new pair of managers. It was very strange, even to Christine. Paris’ unique system of double managers was meant to ensure some sort of continuity between regimes, but the departure of both at the same time had led to utter chaos. No one was even sure who had organized the presentation of the new managers and notified the employees, since Debienne and Poligny had not even been seen – much less done any work – since the news of their departure broke. 

Christine’s mind was not focused on that though, but on what her angel had told her that morning: to be prepared for anything today. 

Did he mean what she hoped he meant? How? What if she wasn’t ready? What would happen after if she disappointed him? What if she succeeded? All she dreamed of was losing herself in the sound of his voice and trying to remember his eyes. If she pleased him, would she see him again? Her skin came alive and her breath quickened at the very thought. Could she…

“Are you excited for tonight?” 

Christine jumped at the question from behind her and spun around to find Meg hunching in embarrassment. 

“Sorry, you surprised me,” Christine excused herself and Meg relaxed instantly. “It’s just another performance, isn’t it?” she added rather carefully, hoping Meg would think it was just the dark red color of her dress that made her friend’s cheeks look so red. 

Meg shrugged and rolled her eyes. “People are saying it will be a miracle if there even is a performance,” the dancer grumbled.

“Is Carlotta still going on about that?” She and Meg turned together to follow the throng of people towards the auditorium. 

The gossip about Carlotta was almost as popular as the speculation about the managers. She was rumored to be irate that she had not been personally consulted about the choice of Debienne and Poligny’s replacements and furious that the new managers had not yet taken time to pay their respects to her in person. 

“I’ve heard she had another understudy fired,” Meg muttered as they descended a dark side staircase, not half as impressive and well lit and the grand staircase in the main foyer.

“Annette is gone?” Christine asked with sudden interest.

“Don’t you notice _anything_?” Meg demanded, exasperated as usual. “No one’s seen her for two weeks, not since Poligny snapped.” 

Carlotta’s understudies were notoriously short-lived in their employment. It was not surprising that Christine had not noticed another’s absence, but it was the timing that struck her as odd and sent a tingle of tentative excitement down her back.

“Well, let’s hope nothing happens to Carlotta,” Christine murmured insincerely as she and Meg reached the auditorium. 

The performers were assembling on stage while the other workers occupied the red velvet seats, as well as several boxes on the orchestra level. Christine smiled brightly at Jean Paul and his assistant, who both waved back at her, but looked quite nervous to be somewhere so clean and far from the stables. She and Meg both nodded to Louise and Julianne who were seated towards the back of the assemblage with the other costumers and dressers. Julianne’s all-knowing smile was more pronounced than usual and her gaze drifted towards the dancers on the stage. Christine exchanged smiles with Alonzo, the giant stagehand who was lurking in the wings, then turned her attention to the rest of the crowd.

Christine tried to hide her disappointment when she saw Carlotta enter from the wings, obviously just emerging from her dressing room, every inch the diva. Her dress of emerald green and ornate coiffure was truly something to be marveled at, though the look of disdain on her face mostly ruined the effect. 

Carlos Fontana, the handsome Spanish tenor so often tasked with playing lover to the soprano, maintained his usual air of detachment and rather snobbish poise. The other principals who would be featured that evening were not half as icy as Faust and Marguerite: Bernard and Franc the baritones singing Valentin and Wagner respectively were jesting together in good humor, as well as the two other sopranos, Giselle and Marianne, who always tried to attract as little attention as possible when Carlotta was around. 

Finally was Robert Rameau, the swarthy, striking bass that would be singing the part of the devil. He had the distinction of being the most affable and good tempered bass and principal. He was extremely tall with a barrel chest that made his deep voice resonate all the more. 

Along with the company, the various directors were gathered on stage. Along with Gabriel, stood LaRoche, director of the Ballet and Mercier the stage director. The two were quite a contrast; Mercier was very tall, long-faced and stern while LaRoche was short, robust and energetic. Bosarge was at the head of the line, crisp and calm as ever. 

Christine was just unhappily noting the presence of Joseph Buquet and the rest of the men from the flies huddled in a clump in the wings when a murmur began to go through the crowd.

Christine instantly saw what was causing the commotion: the new managers had arrived, and shockingly Debienne and Poligny were leading them in. To say Debienne looked unhappy would not even begin to describe his demeanor, but it was Poligny who attracted the most attention. The formerly robust man looked positively sick. He was ashen and drawn and continually looked over his shoulder as if expecting an imminent attack.

“Ah, Messieurs, welcome,” Bosarge greeted the men calmly as the group approached the stage down the center aisle. 

Moving past the surprise of seeing the retiring managers, Christine and the rest of the Opera took in their replacements. Dwarfed by the massive theater, they gave Christine the odd impression of two toys – a rag doll and a tin soldier. One was shorter and slightly younger than the other, with wavy brown hair, a moustache and half spectacles. He seemed quite enthusiastic and even shook a few hands. The other was balding but had absurd sideburns to compensate; he was much steelier than his partner and did not smile. 

The four men made their way up the little staircase that was set up for such occasions through the orchestra pit. The directors looked to Debienne expectantly, since Poligny seemed to be in no state to talk. 

“Yes, well…good of everyone to show up,” Debienne finally broke the silence. “I am honored to introduce your new managers, Messieurs Firmin Richard;” the bald, tin soldier nodded curtly. “And Armand Moncharmin;” the ragdoll smiled broadly. 

The company continued to wait for further ceremony and Debienne looked around awkwardly. 

“We wish them luck and may God protect them” Poligny exclaimed weakly to everyone’s great surprise. The astonishment of the crowd grew when, without another word, both men turned and descended back towards the exit. The dark haired new manager, Moncharmin, began to rush after them, as confused as everyone else.

“Messieurs, you can’t mean just to leave, won’t you even stay for the gala?” the neophyte protested. 

Debienne didn’t pause in his deliberate strides towards the exit, Poligny racing after him, still looking over his shoulder in fear.

“It’s your business now. The gala will be your work,” Debienne retorted without looking back. “As my poor friend said: good luck, you’ll certainly need it.” 

And with that the old managers left, the double doors of the auditorium slamming behind them. 

Almost as one the Opera turned its gaze back to Richard and Moncharmin.

“Well,” Moncharmin murmured, clearly just as astounded as his new employees. “I’m sure this is the beginning of a wonderful new era in the glorious history of the Paris Opera,” he exclaimed rather unconvincingly as Richard continued to glower beside him. Christine felt almost sorry for the man, though she did hope he was right.

“So, is everything in good condition?” Richard demanded abruptly of the directors.

“Everything will be perfect for tonight, Messieurs,” Mercier, the lanky stage director, assured them weakly. Only Moncharmin smiled.

“I don’t see why not. You do this piece every other week, don’t you?” Richard derided and a little wave of indignation rippled through the company. 

“Ah, but no one sings Marguerite like our Carlotta!” Ledour piped from behind the shoulder of his mistress.

“True indeed,” Bosarge muttered acidly. Carlotta shot him a grim look. 

“Carlotta, who is that?” Moncharmin asked naively. Christine could feel the rest of the company fighting back the urge to giggle along with her. 

Carlotta looked as if someone had hit her in the face with a dead fish. Undeterred, she strode toward the managers. “That would be me, sir. I am the star of this Opera,” Carlotta explained, a cold attempt at charm in her voice. “One who is, as I have tried to inform you, in very great demand.” 

A small crash from backstage took the managers’ attentions from Carlotta. Looking back at the surly diva, only Moncharmin tried to smile.

“Oh, yes, of course; you do look so very different up close!” he ventured as Richard grimaced. Christine wondered if Carlotta’s eyes could get any wider in appalled rage. 

“You are playing Marguerite? Isn’t she a maiden?” Richard asked coarsely. 

Christine dug her fingernails into her hands, noting to herself that Carlotta’s eyes had not widened but her face was turning a lovely shade of scarlet.

“Oh, Richard, it’s opera,” Moncharmin attempted, “suspension of disbelief and all.” He tried in vain to laugh at himself, but it only served to earn a glare from Carlotta that would have melted marble. 

“I am the greatest star this theater has ever known, Messieurs,” Carlotta intoned dangerously. “I have been invited to perform for the Prince of Monaco this very evening, but I have chosen instead to participate in your little gala, despite your failure to personally request it.” A second crash came from far back in the wings, drowning out many of the whispers of the crowd.

“I hadn’t heard _that_ ,” Meg muttered in Christine’s ear.

“How very impressive…” Moncharmin stuttered, torn between confusion and terror. 

“Personal invitation?” Richard balked, clearly neither impressed nor intimidated. “Do you think we have nothing better to do; it’s taken all our effort just to get the wretched books in order to keep this damn place running, Madame.”

“Sir, without the Signora, there would be no Opera to run,” Ledour offered tartly, jumping to his mistress’ defense. 

Carlotta herself was about to add to the sentiment when another thunderous crash echoed from behind the painted backdrop. The chorus of frightened murmurs abandoned secrecy this time.

“Really, well it sounds as if this place is falling apart even with her here,” Moncharmin jested and earned a scoff from Richard and a gasp of rage of Carlotta. 

“Who on earth is back there? We were told the entire Opera would be here,” Richard demanded. 

“No one, sir,” Mercier answered darkly. “Everyone is here…”

“ _Everyone_ indeed,” Meg whispered to Christine, voicing the thought on everyone else’s mind. 

Christine nodded in agreement. He was there. She could feel it like electricity in the air before a storm. The others could feel it too, she thought, as the company grew more quietly agitated.

“No one?” Richard probed; clearly more interested in the troubled look Mercier was trying to hide than his irate diva.

“No one human…” Robert Rameau grumbled. Around him people crossed themselves and murmured in agreement. 

“Excuse me?” Moncharmin asked, looking for who had spoken.

“Pay no attention to this foolishness,” Carlotta ordered. “Someone is clearly trying to…”

“It’s the just the ghost, Messieurs,” Bosarge answered casually, stepping forward towards the managers, intently ignoring Carlotta. 

“ _Ghost_?” Moncharmin stuttered as all false optimism flew from his features.

“Yes,” Bosarge replied without the usual superstition. “Surely you must have heard the legends of our phantom? Didn’t your predecessors tell you?” Richard and Moncharmin shook their heads in bewilderment.

“It’s a stupid superstition!” Carlotta cried desperately. “A story that stagehands make up to cover their mistakes!” Another bang answered her protest, this time accompanied by the clattering of metal.

“Well, it seems that the ghost is not an admirer…” Moncharmin ventured. 

“Indeed,” Bosarge purred through his white goatee. 

“Perhaps he should talk to the Prince of Monaco,” Richard grumbled, looking away from Carlotta and over the clamoring company. 

It was the almost imperceptible, icy laughter that really sent the murmurs into a frenzy. Christine however was still as stone, her every thought focused on Carlotta. No one had ever spoken to Carlotta as boldly as these men. Well, except perhaps her; but Carlotta had tried to have her fired for that – twice. 

“How _dare_ you insult me like this on _my_ stage!” Carlotta bellowed, shocking the company into terrified silence. Even Moncharmin and Richard looked taken aback by the explosion. “Perhaps I will go where I am appreciated! This place is nothing without me! See if you laugh tonight, _without me there_!” Carlotta screamed and stormed from stage without further ceremony, Ledour scuttling behind her. 

No one said a word; the company seemed to hold its breath waiting for Carlotta to turn around and return. The silence stretched on and Christine still could not believe what she had just witnessed. Her angel must have known…

“She’s not coming back, is she?” Moncharmin stated hopelessly, voicing the fear and hope of the entire company. 

“Probably not,” Bosarge shrugged. Moncharmin gave a guilty, sick sigh as he removed his spectacles and wiped his brow.

“But all of the money in Paris will be here tonight,” Richard protested, with the first spark of real concern he had shown all day. “I hope the understudy is up to their stardard.” 

“Regarding the understudy, sir…” Mercier ventured fearfully, earning a horrified look from both new managers. “She was let go two weeks ago. No one has been chosen yet to replace her.”

“What? You mean we have to cancel?” Richard demanded. 

“I think that was her point…” Moncharmin mumbled angrily.

“For heaven’s sake, you perform _Faust_ more than most priests perform mass, someone must know the damn role!” Richard snarled, looking around desperately. Christine’s heart was beating so hard suddenly that it made her tremble.

“I believe you are right,” Bosarge reassured the managers, sending more waves of confusion and gossip through the company. Christine felt herself grow pale as the conductor turned smoothly and looked directly at her.

“There is an understudy?” Moncharmin asked hopefully. Bosarge shrugged again.

“I’ve heard a rumor that there is a chorus girl who knows the part,” he explained calmly with a nod towards where Christine stood amid a suddenly aghast gaggle of dancers and singers, trying to breathe.

“Her?” Richard barked impatiently as he surveyed Christine with clear suspicion. 

“My sources are quite reliable,” Bosarge countered with a faint smile on his lips. 

The other singers around Christine parted like the red sea before Moses as the bald manager strode towards her, Moncharmin trailing warily behind.

“What’s your name?” Richard asked brusquely.

“Christine Daaé.” She was amazed that she didn’t hesitate or stutter. 

“Do you really know the part?” Moncharmin demanded frantically from behind Richard. Christine took a deep breath and felt the presence of heaven around her.

“Better than I know myself.” 

Gasps of shock came from all around her, she was even sure she heard Adele swearing in astonishment, but she did not look away from Richard and Moncharmin. 

“Is she any good?” Richard demanded to the company and directors. To Christine’s incredulous delight, Gabriel stepped forward from behind Mercier and Bosarge.

“She is, sir, I have faith in her,” he said cautiously. Richard raised an eyebrow as he looked back at Christine, who swallowed nervously. 

“She’s the best!” a small voice cried. Everyone’s eyes turned to where Meg Giry was standing and grinning, a few feet behind Christine now. Confronted with so many serious expressions Meg’s face fell. “Just another perspective,” she squeaked. 

Richard and Moncharmin sighed and looked at each other. Christine held her breath, praying with all her soul to her angel…

“Alright, be ready to sing tonight then,” Richard ordered with a shrug and Moncharmin gave a little hop of relief. 

Christine fought back the competing urges to jump for joy or faint.

“Don’t you even want to hear her?” Mercier protested, still aghast. Fontana and the other principals also looked quite horrified at the thought of singing with a girl they had not even really acknowledged the existence of until a few moments before.

“I’d rather not risk it,” Richard growled and his look of reproach was enough to silence any more opposition. “If she fails, at least it will only be one performance,” he added with a dark look to his newest lead. Christine tried to ignore the cruel looks of agreement on various singers’ faces. Richard said nothing further and made to leave the stage at last. 

“Messieurs, isn’t there anything else…” Mercier asked, taking a step after the men.

“I think you all have a great deal of work to do before tonight’s performance,” Richard muttered over his shoulder. “Everyone, dismissed!” he cried almost as an afterthought.

“We look forward to tonight!” Moncharmin added as his partner dragged him from the stage. 

As everyone began to vacate the theater, Christine looked around in wonder, unsure of what to do.

“Well, let’s make sure you know the blocking, Mademoiselle,” came the sound of Mercier’s voice from behind her. She turned to meet his long, perturbed face. “We certainly don’t want to falling off the stage. Fontana, Rameau!” he signaled to the men who would share the most scenes with her. The tenor and bass looked respectively annoyed and fascinated.

“You’ve got luck on your side, that’s for sure, girl,” Rameau smiled, an appropriately devilish gleam in his eyes. Christine tried to smile back while Bosarge caught her gaze as he walked by.

“Perhaps more than luck,” the old man whispered to her, a glimmer of mischief in his blue eyes. Christine looked at him in shock then truly smiled. Her angel had not known this would happen – he had made it happen. She closed her eyes and let herself feel him watching her and filling her heart. 

Tonight she would sing for her angel of music, and nothing would ever be the same again.

~

Erik had dearly wanted to find a way to watch Christine further, but the wings and flies had been far too crowded as the throng dispersed. He had barely been able to duck away into a hidden passage far above the stage before Joseph Buquet and his minions arrived, ready to place the sets for the evening’s performance. It had been for the best however, since, like his protégé, he had much to do before the gala.

His first task had been easier than he had expected, he thought to himself as entered his home, taking in the familiar sights – the organ and piano, the embers of the fire, the dark, worn furniture. He had made contact with Rabindra as arranged. His servant in the outside world had confirmed that Carlotta had made it out of Paris without discovering that Christine had been enlisted to replace her. Erik had not relished the thought of what he might have to do to keep Carlotta from the stage that night, if only because it might involve making him late for curtain. He did regret that he could not be there when the idiot woman arrived for the engagement that had tempted her from her beloved Paris stage, only to find it did not exist. 

The thought made him smile as he lit more candles to drive out some of the gloom from the windowless room. Getting Carlotta out of Christine’s way had been the easy part; it would be keeping her away that would be tricky. 

Erik was still not sure of what to think of the new managers, even after an hour listening beneath their feet. He was of course pleased they had followed the advice of Bosarge and others in selecting Carlotta’s replacement, as anticipated, but he wondered how long it would take them to realize who truly ran the Opera. Moncharmin had seemed almost ready to believe, but Richard had been firm in his assertion that the ghost was just a superstition of the feeble-minded artists. Of course, their tone had changed when they found his note on their desk, welcoming them to the Opera and reminding them that box five was to be left for his personal use.

Erik removed the thick, hooded cloak he had worn for most of the day. The heavy, black wool garment was not his usual selection, but the hood shielded his face well on those terrible times when he had to venture into the world in daylight. Though he rarely noticed the temperature, it was also guarded quite well against the winter cold. Erik wondered if the managers had felt the chill creep into their blood when they had read his letter – he had heard it in their voices. As long as box five was empty tonight, it did not yet matter what they believed. 

Erik looked to the clock – only an hour before curtain. No force in the world could keep him from the Opera tonight. Tonight all of Paris would be astounded at the beauty of the voice he had molded and that sang only for him. Tonight everything would change. Tonight Christine would amaze them all, and afterward…

Erik shook his head. He was still not sure what he wanted to happen when the curtain fell. He prayed he could be strong, but to what purpose he was uncertain. Better to think of something else. He had to dress for the evening, he decided resolutely and entered his shadowed bedchamber. The most important performance he might ever see required his finest. 

He had always found it odd, he thought, as he pulled off the black coat and shirt he had worn for the day, that the legend said the ghost always dressed as if he was attending the Opera. It was true that he usually wore a long black cape and hat, but those simply made it easier to hide in the shadows. Usually his mask was the only white he wore, since the white of a fine dress shirt like the one he selected might reflect too much light. Well, people believed strange things; he could not fault them for that.

He dressed carefully, taking care that each button of his white shirt and black vest was in place; that the tie at his throat was straight and his dress coat was unwrinkled. He was used to dressing without a mirror. He combed his black hair away from his face, making sure not to touch the mask, lest it remind him why his attempts at vanity were so futile. At last he selected his finest opera cape, black velvet with silk lining, intricately beaded at the collar, and a black wide-brimmed hat. It was certainly cold enough for gloves, but he disliked masking his hands as well as his face. His hands were pale, long and thin – by no means normal – and they were always so cold. But in the dark they could pass for human, if it was necessary, unlike his face.

Erik cast his eyes around his home once again as he prepared to leave. He only kept a few candles burning when he left, and the shadows fell thickly on his ancient furniture and musical instruments. It was the only place in his life he had ever felt safe. What would Christine think of it? He wondered dreamily, imagining her standing before him in all her beauty with nothing between them at last. 

He brushed a stray lock of black hair from his face and his bare finger touched the cold, hard surface of his mask.

No. There would always be something between them. 

Erik shook his head at the thought. At the most he might be mad enough to tell her he was mortal, he would not show her this. Besides, if Christine ever found her way to his home, how could he ever let her go? It was better to be an angel, better to take the only love from her he could ever hope for. 

She belonged to him, voice and heart. As long as another would never touch her body, as long as she never loved a mortal man, the mask of an angel was enough.

~

The last few hours had been a complete blur to Christine, she thought as she began to warm up in her dressing room. It was better to focus on her voice, rather than the suddenly terrifying prospect of the imminent performance. Her rushed rehearsal with Mercier and the male leads had placated the director’s nerves a bit, since it had become apparent that she actually knew where to stand and what to do better than Carlotta ever had. Fontana was still skeptical, but they had sung a few bars of the garden scene together, just to test things out, and he had begun to look at her with grudging confidence. 

Dozens of people had given her advice and well wishes, some more sincere than others. It didn’t really matter; the only voice she had wanted to hear since Carlotta had left the stage remained silent.

She went through another scale, not pushing too hard, since she still had an entire act to wait through before she would even sing a few notes. She could not feel her angel with her yet, which made even warming up seem daunting. All she had to do in Act I was appear behind a screen as the devil showed Faust the vision of the beautiful woman he would have, if he just sold his soul. At least she could not get that scene wrong. 

A knock on the dressing room door stopped her mid trill

“Costumes!” 

Thank God it was Julianne and not a manager or director come to tell her there had been some terrible mistake. 

“Come in,” Christine commanded rather pathetically. 

To Christine’s muted surprise, Louise was with her daughter. Both were smiling broadly and holding a costume.

“Dear lord, to think that the little thing that came in from the rain three months ago is about to be a prima donna!” Louise exclaimed with an incredulous laugh.

“Lucky that we just happened to have a set of Marguerite’s costumes fitted to your measurements,” Julianne added with a wink. Christine tried to catch Louise’s eyes but the older woman pointedly looked away. 

“There’s no such thing as luck here,” Christine murmured, glancing at the mirror. 

The mother and daughter worked quickly to prepare Christine for the first act. Soon she was outfitted in a bodice, skirt and blouse of pink and white, fit for a virginal, peasant girl. Her long auburn hair was braided with ribbons; her eyes were lined with kohl and her cheeks and lips reddened with rouge.

“You look perfect,” Julianne complimented proudly. “I know you’ll be wonderful,” the dark-haired girl added, looking sincerely into Christine’s eyes. Louise looked as if she was on the verge of tears.

“You’ll make us all so proud,” Louise agreed thickly. 

“Thank you,” Christine told them, suddenly overcome by their faith. 

 

“Five minutes to curtain!” a call came from outside the dressing room door. 

Without needing to be told, Louise and Julianne turned, each giving Christine a nod before leaving her alone for the last few moments.

Christine looked toward the great mirror in the silence, her pulse suddenly pounding uncontrollably. What was going on? She wasn’t a prima donna! What did she think she was doing? Every possible fear besieged her thoughts. Carlotta was coming back. She would forget her part. She would not sing well enough. Everyone would look at her and know she didn’t belong there and drive her from the stage before she even opened her mouth. 

She leaned against the mirror, her hand and forehead pressed against the cold glass. What if she failed and never heard her angel again…

“Breathe, Christine,” the angel’s voice came from all around her. 

Christine let out a halting sigh, ready to weep at the sound. 

“Breathe. Fight back against your fears. Breathe,” he commanded. 

Christine obeyed and inhaled slowly. “Do you really believe I’m ready?” she whispered to the glass, wishing with all her heart that somehow he could step into the light and hold her. 

“I know you are ready,” the angel countered instantly, his voice full of love. 

“What if I’m not?” Christine protested, shutting her eyes. “What if I disappoint the other singers, or Meg, or Julianne and Louise, or the managers…or father…or you…” 

“Christine, do you love me?” her angel cut her off, his voice tender yet compelling.

“Of course,” she answered, her eyes open again, staring at her own reflection. 

“Then sing with love tonight, and I promise you will not disappoint me,” he swore and Christine watched her own smile creep over her face in the glass. “Don’t think of anyone else. Sing only for me, Christine, and nothing else will matter. If you are frightened, just remember me and breathe…and know that I will love you more with each breath.” 

Christine shut her eyes again, this time fighting back tears of love and joy. It was all she needed to hear. “I know everything will change after this,” she told him ardently, “but no matter what, I am yours.”

“Places!” came the call from outside her dressing room, accompanied by a sharp knock.

“Go, Christine,” the angel of music ordered. 

Christine nodded and placed her hand on the handle of the door. 

“Sing for me.” The command echoed in her heart as she left the dressing room and made her was down the hall and up a crowded staircase to the stage, all the while feeling as if she was floating. 

She took her place in the wings, listening to the sound of the orchestra tuning, each note blossoming out of another until it was one great wall of sound. The overture began as Christine waited in the darkness, ignoring everyone else around her. 

She took a deep breath and let it out, loving him.

~

Erik learned against the red upholstered wall of his box, grateful for the shadow and a moment alone. He closed his eyes and remembered the look of love and joy in her face on the other side of the mirror, only an inch from him. As Faust cursed happiness and faith on the stage, Erik cursed his own heart. 

Fontana was in good form tonight, as was Rameau when he entered, popping up from a trap door in the stage in a burst of smoke and brimstone. Erik finally took his seat, hidden from the rest of the audience at the back of the box, thinking of the stories of how the Opera Ghost had sold his soul to the devil for a beautiful voice. If only that were so. Faust longed for youth again, but he did not sell his soul until the devil offered something else: the love of a beautiful, innocent woman. Erik could hardly blame the man, especially when the vision the devil presented was of Christine. 

The audience began to murmur when they saw the new Marguerite at her spinning wheel. They had not paid attention to the little notice in the program, obviously. Erik surveyed the crowd as Act I ended. 

He could make out some of the gossip while the music was silent: Where was Carlotta? What on earth were the new managers up to? Erik looked to where Richard and Moncharmin sat in the premier box, on the opposite side of the theater. They looked extremely nervous and were not speaking to the ministers and their wives who were sharing the loge. 

Erik’s eyes wandered over the rest of the gala audience absently. It was the usual assortment of black dress coats and shining silk and satin dresses, accented by jewels glittering under the light of the massive chandelier. The higher Erik looked, the less expensive the costumes became…

Erik’s thought froze as his gaze fell on one spectator, seated high in the theater. He was far off, but Erik would recognize Shaya Motlagh anywhere. Erik scowled, the happiness that had sustained him for most of the day growing cold. The decree against admitting the detective must have been forgotten in the transition of new managers. Erik shook his head. It did not matter tonight. The Daroga would watch Christine’s triumph with the rest of them, and when the fool began to ask questions, he would be dealt with accordingly.

As the curtain rose on the second act, the talk decreased only a little. The soldier’s chorus and the devil’s blasphemous song to the golden calf were rousing as usual, but no one was really paying attention. The muttering grew in volume as Marguerite at last made her entrance, but when Christine began to sing every other sound but the music stopped. Marguerite had little to do but rebuff Faust’s advances, yet Christine held everyone spellbound with each note. Even the faces of her fellow singers betrayed surprise at such a voice coming from this girl they barely knew. 

Erik relaxed into his seat as Christine exited the stage. He knew she was destined for absolute triumph, all he had to do was watch it play out.

At the next interval the audience broke out into vociferous speculation about the new soprano. Who was she? Where on earth had she been hiding all this time? She was Swedish, any relation to Christine Nillson? No one was quite sure what to think of her yet. The real test would be Act III. 

Erik smiled to himself again as the prelude rose from the orchestra. He had given Christine their attention by placing her there instead of Carlotta, but it was her voice that would make them really listen. 

Sibel, Faust and Mephistopheles came and went and at last Christine was alone on stage. If she was frightened or nervous, Erik could not see it. For a second she looked towards his box, a whisper of a smile on her face, and then she began to sing. Erik listened breathlessly as she perfected the ballad of the King of Thule, spinning out glorious sound as easily as Marguerite spun her thread. But it was the Jewel Song that the audience was waiting for and it was there that the new Marguerite came into her own. Her runs and exclamations sparkled and her dreaming phrases soared to the sky. Her final high note still echoed through the auditorium when the usual bored and demure audience exploded in applause. 

From the shadows of box five Erik wanted to jump to his feet and clap as well. She was already surpassing even his wildest dreams. He rejoiced in the perfection of his creation and in the endless applause that delayed the beginning of the quartet. The quartet as well was a triumph. 

In the duet between Marguerite and Faust, Erik’s heart raced. Fontana was singing better than he had in years, finally matched with a voice that inspired him to beauty as well. Erik thought of how he had sung this music with Christine so many times, wishing he could take her in his arms as the tenor was doing at that moment. The chaste maid told Faust to return the next day, but the devil whispered in Faust’s ear to listen to Marguerite’s true desires. To the dark of the night she sang of her love for the mysterious stranger. And in the darkness Faust returned, to take the maiden’s innocence and while the devil rejoiced in her corruption. The curtain closed as Fontana again took Christine is his arms, causing Erik another intense stab of jealousy and desire, but the explosion of applause drove the thought from his mind.

This time when Erik looked across the theater to his new managers their expressions were utterly changed. Even dour Richard was grinning as a throng of patrons entered their box to congratulate them on the new discovery. Erik hoped the men were listening very well, and were appropriately enthralled with their new star. 

Act IV was another triumph. Christine was magnificent in the church scene, as the devil told Marguerite her soul was damned. She proved to the amazed audience that she was not only an angelic voice but also a radiant actress. Marguerite’s despair resonated in every note that Christine sang and half the audience had tears in their eyes as they waited for the final act.

The ballet was almost completely ignored, as were Faust and Mephistopheles. Like Faust, all anyone could think of was returning to Marguerite. The light rose on the final scene in Marguerite’s prison cell. 

Christine was dressed in a simple white shift with a scooped neck, laced up the back so the linen clung flatteringly to her lithe form. Her auburn hair was unbound and the rouge had been wiped from her face. To Erik, she had never looked more beautiful. 

Faust called out to her and she sang, rejoicing in the sound of her beloved’s voice. Erik knew she was singing to her angel, for love filled each note. Her voice was light itself, shining and pure, warm as salvation. 

Faust and the devil called to her, but Marguerite resisted. She called to heaven and the choirs of angels proclaimed her salvation. Erik knew he was not alone in feeling that he too was being lifted to heaven. She sang with utter faith and it was the most beautiful thing he had ever heard. He felt tears streaming down his face beneath the mask, his heart aching desperately with love. She was his. She had to be.

“ _Angels pure, angels radiant, carry my soul to heaven_!” Christine sang to him.

The desire to tell her and hold her was overwhelming. She had believed in him, and she had found an angel. If he dared to believe in her, couldn’t he do the same? He could hold her at last and feel alive. 

Erik didn’t have time to pursue the thought. Before the curtain had even closed on the crescendo, the entire house sprang to their feet in ovation. Shocked from his reverie, Erik tried to convince himself to be rational. This was her moment to bask in the world’s adoration. 

He could not tell her now, but he had to be close to her. 

 

Christine could not breathe. 

All she could think was that a miracle had just occurred. She had never given so much to the music. She knew without doubt it was the best she had ever sung. Now as she lay on the stage she felt like she was dying. Someone helped her up and she looked into the face of the devil himself. 

“They’re a calling for you, dear girl, get out there!” Rameau cried in delight. Before Christine could gather her thoughts she was thrust through the curtain and faced with the deafening crowd. She knew there had been applause before, but she had not really noticed it. All she had thought about was the music and the angels listening. 

She curtsied coyly, aghast to see the entire audience was already on their feet. Her simple movement brought a fresh round of cheers, and she was immediately lost. Thankfully the other principals appeared beside her and took her hands, letting her lead them in another bow. Bosarge joined them on stage, nodding to the raucous crowd. He strode to Christine and kissed her cheek.  
“Our ghost has good taste,” the conductor whispered in her ear and then bowed, not to the audience, but to her. This action only served to bait the crowd into new peals of praise. 

Christine bowed again and turned to leave the stage, but the applause didn’t stop. Someone pushed her out again. The clapping and cries of praise simply refused to cease. Christine blushed as tears ran down her face. She was shaking so badly she could barely stand and the noise was absolutely deafening. 

A second time she tried to leave the stage, desperate to escape, and was pushed back on. People were throwing flowers and grooms were pressing huge bouquets into her arms. She swooned, grabbing the arm of whoever was closest to her. She was falling before she new what was happening. She was aware of being carried off stage and the sound of clapping slowly beginning to fade. 

It wasn’t until she opened her eyes that she had realized she had closed them.

“Christine! You were amazing!” someone who Christine was sure she didn’t know cried out ecstatically. 

Christine tried to stand on her own and nearly failed when she saw the horde of people waiting in the wings. The chaos on one side of the curtain would be nothing compared to what she was going to face here. Carlos Fontana himself was supporting her as she tried to make her way through the crowd. Every member of the company swarmed around her, congratulating her and praising her. 

She caught a glimpse of a blonde-haired imp struggling to get through the crowd. 

“Meg!” Christine called out. “Help!” She nearly fell out of Fontana’s arms and into those of the jubilant dancer as Meg pounced. “Help me get to my dressing room.” 

“Are you mad?” Meg exclaimed, causing Christine a wave of dizzy terror. “You can’t run to your silly dressing room! Christine, they’re saying you’re the greatest voice Paris has ever heard! You’re going to be a star!”

“She is a star!” It was Adele, piping in from far back in the crowd and everyone around agreed. 

“Let the girl breathe at least!” Rameau thundered in his best _basso profundo_. It was enough to make the sea of performers part.

“Here, let me help,” Julianne offered as she appeared beside Christine. “You were amazing, and I’m not just saying that because I want to be the new diva’s exclusive dresser,” Julianne winked. 

Between Meg and Julianne, Christine began to push though the bustling halls and salons. It seemed another throng was there to stop her at every step though, each telling her how fantastic she had been, such a surprise, _brava_! Stagehands, singers, patrons all got in her way. Christine braced herself against Meg when the managers appeared, surrounded by patrons in dress clothes also clamoring for the new diva.

“Mademoiselle Daaé, what a fantastic triumph!” Moncharmin exclaimed gleefully as he grabbed Christine’s hand and kissed it. 

“Amazing indeed, we’ve already got a queue for tickets to your next performances,” Richard noted with what passed for a smile, though he thankfully did not touch her.

“Next performances?” Christine gaped.

“Of course! We have another _Faust_ in a week and after that two _Rigolettos_ …do you know Gilda?” Moncharmin answered excitedly. 

“Yes, I do…” Christine felt Meg hopping with enthusiasm beside her, making her seasick.

“We shall discuss more later,” Richard interjected reasonably, obviously seeing that his new star was in no condition to talk business. “We have a party to get to, we will see you there.” 

The two men smiled at Christine again left in the direction of the _salon du danse_. The thought of facing an entire party full of people praising and fawning over her made Christine’s head spin. 

“Did you hear that! They want you to sing again!” Meg exclaimed. 

Christine tried to take a breath but there simply wasn’t enough air. God, would every night be like this? Would she always be this drained and exhausted? The noise and the strangers and her pounding heart and the sick feeling of falling without stopping…

“Are you alright? You look sick?” came Julianne’s voice from far away. 

Christine couldn’t see though. There was no air and the world was growing so blurry and constricted. 

“Dear God, is she alright?” an unfamiliar voice cried from somewhere else.

“I just need to…lie down…my dressing room…” Christine whispered, grabbing onto to whoever was holding her up. Was she flying? No, she was being lifted up and carried. How very strange. In what seemed like a second she felt the familiar curves of her dressing room couch under her body. Finally, she was home, she thought happily as she opened her eyes. 

Christine gasped in shock when she saw the face staring down at her. She had to be dreaming, she told herself as she drew back in confusion, trying to sit up and failing. No, it wasn’t a dream; Raoul de Chagny was really there, his beautiful face full of worry as he knelt beside her. 

Why was he here now, of all times? Any other night she would have been so happy to see him, but nothing mattered but her angel tonight. And her angel had told her to stay away from the patrons.

“Who are you?” Christine demanded haltingly, desperate to get him away and earning a bewildered glare from Meg. 

“I am the boy who saved your scarf from the sea,” he whispered reverently and Christine’s heart leapt. He tenderly took her hand, his face full of affection and memory. He did remember. 

Christine could not stop the smile from creeping over her face. But she had to make him leave…so she let the smile become a bewildered laugh. Raoul’s face fell as if she had slapped him. 

“I’m sorry, sir, but I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Christine explained, serious again and immediately sorry for hurting him.

“You don’t remember me?” he asked dejectedly, not letting go of her hand. Christine glanced at the mirror, suddenly fearful.

“No, of course not,” she declared, finding the strength to stand and removing her hand from his grasp. Christine wished Julianne would stop staring and find her robe; the linen shift she wore was a perfect costume for Marguerite as she rotted in prison, but the thin, simple garment was positively indecent off-stage.

“Christine, this is Raoul De Chagny…” Meg prompted, obviously horrified. 

“As I said,” Christine cut off her friend. “I do not know you, Monsieur. Please go.” 

Both Meg and Julianne looked utterly confused, Meg more so.

“But I know you!” Raoul protested, somehow steadfast and gentle at the same time, stepping in front of Christine and taking her hand once more. It made her catch her breath. “If you don’t remember me now, I shall simply have to remind you. Let me take you for supper…or at least escort you to the reception. Everyone will want to pay their respects to you.” 

Christine gritted her teeth and withdrew her hand again. “Monsieur De Chagny, thank you for your help, but I wish to be alone right now,” Christine explained tensely, trying not to look at his brilliant smile, which refused to dim.

“I’ve waited this long to find you again, Christine,” Raoul told her so earnestly it made her blush. “I can wait a while longer.”

“Please, don’t. I-I need to be alone. Please go,” she ordered but no one moved. “I meant all of you.” They remained still, staring at her. “Now!” Christine exclaimed, finally breaking the spell. 

Christine sighed in relief, glancing to the mirror again. She could feel him waiting. 

Meg pouted as Julianne escorted her from the room. Raoul followed the two females but turned to smile at Christine again, something like wonder in his face. 

“Goodbye, sir,” Christine told him tersely, impatient to close the door after him and her foolish memories. He grinned back at her.

“I will wait,” he promised and seized her hand. To Christine’s astonishment, he pressed a kiss to her flesh. She felt dizzy again and blushed furiously. He gave her one more eager look and a small bow as he finally turned to leave. 

Christine sighed in relief when he closed the door behind him. At last she might hear words of praise from the only voice that mattered. Raoul was just a man. Nothing he could offer would compare to the sound of her angel’s voice or even the memory of his eyes. 

She turned from the door and observed her angel’s red rose on her vanity. She picked up the token, cherishing it. She remembered Marguerite, who turned away from Sibel’s flowers for Faust’s devilish jewels. Her angel had given her jewels too though – tonight he had made so many of her dreams come true. Only one remained, she thought lovingly, as she smiled toward the mirror.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only took me eleven chapters to catch up to Leroux and ALW, not too bad, eh?


	12. Close Your Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christine steps into the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter where we earn the mature rating, just so you know.

It was the smile that truly calmed Erik. After attending to one piece of business, he had waited impatiently behind the mirror for her return, wanting nothing more than to have her alone to tell her how she had surpassed his greatest expectations, but she had not been alone. Her dresser and dancer had opened the door and she had been carried in, wrapped in the arms of _the boy_. 

The very sight of him had made Erik want to shatter the mirror and throttle the fool. He had a noble name but Erik didn’t care. He was holding Christine and smiling at her with his perfect face and declaring he would wait for her. Christine had tried to drive him away but not before Erik had seen the recognition in her eyes, the furtive glances to the mirror. The way she had blushed when the boy had kissed her hand and the catch of longing in her breath had filled him the fiercest hate he had felt in years. 

Luckily for the fool he had obeyed Christine’s command to leave. It was only a temporary victory though. The boy had said he would wait. He would come back; and if not him, some other simpering patron like him, intent on seducing and stealing what belong to the angel of music. Christine had been strong tonight, but how long before her resolve failed? How long until the day when there was no angel watching to protect her? How had he thought placing her on the stage would make things easier? The boy would come back. Questions would be asked which Christine could not answer. Shaya would find a way to reach her and tell her everything.  
But she was smiling at him now. She laid down the rose and drifted closer to the mirror. 

“Angel?” she whispered reverently, touching the mirror delicately. 

Erik raised his hand to touch the cold, smooth surface as well, his fingers separated from hers only by the glass. It had been so easy for that boy just to reach out and take her hand. He had probably thought nothing of it. 

“Christine,” he called her name like a song, love overcoming him. “You were perfect. The angels wept tonight.” He watched elation spread through her face. She was so beautiful it nearly choked him. 

“Oh, my angel…” Christine sighed. “I gave you my soul tonight.” 

Erik felt a wave of longing crashing over him. Soon the world would come to take her from him. They would pull her in to the blazing light where he could never follow. They would tell her that her angel was a monster. He could not lose her like that. If she learned the truth it had to be from him…and it had to be now.

“Your soul is a beautiful thing, no king or emperor will ever receive a treasure of its like,” Erik replied sadly, tracing the outline of her face with a shadowed hand. “How can I ever repay such a gift?” he asked, honest and heartbroken. “Ask anything of me, and it is yours.”

He watched as she gasped, pulling back from the mirror in awe. He knew what she wanted, the question that he had forbidden always lingered in her eyes. It was what they always asked, eventually, no matter what kind of mask you used.

“All I want is you, to be with you…” she began haltingly. “I want to see you again.” 

Erik closed his eyes, the poisonous, perfect words ringing in his ears. 

“I want…” 

Erik’s eyes flew open, what more could she want? 

“I want to touch you.” 

His heart stopped, every other thought and heartbreak vanishing. Had they had the same dream all along? It didn’t matter. She believed her angel could touch her. He had to reveal his lies at last, but first he would touch her.

“Put out the light,” he ordered without thinking and her face filled with terrified joy. 

He banished the last rational thoughts from his mind as she extinguished the lights one by one. He picked up the oil lantern beside him, holding the light high by the wrought iron handle so that she would have her wish granted. She gasped when she turned to the mirror and saw him, her face awash in wonder and adoration. His voice rose in a fragment of Faust’s song to Marguerite.

“ _Let your hand forget itself in mine…let me adore your beauty…_ ” 

Breathlessly, Christine glided to the mirror where the image of her ghost had appeared. He triggered the mirror and the glass slid back readily. 

Only lies and dreams protected him now. He lifted his pale hand slowly and held it out to her as his song faded. 

“Come to me, Christine,” he whispered, imploring her with his eyes. 

She reached out to him slowly. She knew, just as he did, that moment she touched him, nothing would be the same; but like him, she was too intoxicated by the promise of heaven to care. Her fingertips touched his at last and Erik caught his breath. He began to sing again as he took her hand, lost in the moment of contact he had dreamed of for so long. It was more sublime than he had ever imagined. 

“ _Follow me, my angel, my light,_ ” he sang as he took her hand in his, so warm and soft. He guided her carefully into the black shadows of his hidden world as the mirror slid closed behind them. 

“ _Come to me, follow me. There is no way home but through the dark._ ”

~

It had never been quite this hard to get backstage in the past, even after the old managers had banned him from the theater, Shaya thought as he tried to push through the crowd. Everyone wanted the same thing as he did of course: Christine Daaé. They all wanted to discover more about the girl they had never heard of until that night out of plain curiosity. Shaya on the other hand was desperate to confirm that the new diva was the same strange girl who he had seen enter the Opera so many days in a row at such strange times. 

At last Shaya found his way back into the warren of corridors that contained the artists’ dressing rooms. The crowds had dispersed somewhat, though they were still talking of nothing but Daaé. He did not dare congratulate himself on his hunch that the girl had indeed been involved in Erik’s plans. He had already been too smug that night, as he had prided himself on getting in to the gala. Then the sense of foreboding that had been building since he heard of Debienne and Poligny’s sudden decision to retire had exploded when he saw the girl appear on stage in place of Carlotta. 

Now he almost wished he had stayed away, so he could be spared this unanswerable dread. He just needed to talk to her, or perhaps someone that knew her. He had to do it before Erik discovered he had made it back into the Opera. Perhaps he could catch her in the patron’s reception – she would have to be there…

“She’s gone!” the exclamation from around the corner shocked Shaya from his thoughts. Driven by habit he stopped and hid, listening.

“Who is gone?” a second male voice asked, more confused than concerned.

“Christine! I was waiting for her and then she was just…gone,” the first speaker, who sounded younger than the other, answered. Shaya grew cold.

“She’s probably gone to the party,” the older man dismissed. 

“No, Philippe, you don’t understand,” the youth protested. 

Shaya carefully peered around the corner at the two men. They were clearly related: both had the same light brown hair, brown eyes and handsome features. The younger man seemed truly distraught. 

“I was with her, in her dressing room…”

“Ha! There’s a good boy!” the elder laughed, slapping his bother on the arm, but his roguish encouragement was ignored.

“She asked me to leave and I waited outside and…I heard a voice inside her dressing room, a man’s voice.” 

“Why that little vixen,” the man called Philippe muttered and the younger man glared at him.

“I couldn’t really hear what they were saying, but then the man, he…” 

Shaya held his breath, praying to Allah that the boy would stop before he confirmed Shaya’s greatest fears. 

“He _sang_ to her. I think it was from the opera, at first, I’m not sure. There was a pause and then it changed. It was in some other language and it was…so beautiful.” 

Shaya shut his eyes. He had known it from the moment the girl stepped on stage.

“She’s probably having a fling with some tenor then,” Philippe dismissed the young man with a wave. The boy grabbed his brother by both arms.

“I thought that too! When I didn’t hear anything more I tried her door, I guess I thought I could catch them…but the room was _empty_.” 

“Can I help you, sir?” the voice that came from behind Shaya was deep and ominous. 

He turned to see a dark-eyed man, roughly half the size of an elephant, staring down at him.

“No, I was just…” Shaya stammered, painfully aware that the two brothers had caught sight of him as well. All three men were glaring with varying levels of reproach.

“Just leaving?” the huge man prompted darkly. “The management has been very clear about who is not allowed backstage. Or in the building.” 

Shaya cast a look to the brothers, who had turned down the hall, obviously eager to continue their conversation in a more private location. Shaya looked back to the grim-faced stagehand.

“I was under the impression the management had just changed,” he attempted sardonically. 

The man took him by the arm, not harshly, but firmly enough that Shaya knew resisting would be useless. He followed willingly; it was already too late to save Christine Daaé. 

“The management is the same as it has always been, sir, you should know that,” the man muttered as he led Shaya away.

~

Christine could barely see in the dark, but she didn’t care. The sound of her angel’s voice was so close and more beautiful and enthralling than she had ever heard it. It was like absinthe, she thought, if it could even be called a thought. It made the world so beautiful and bright and clear. She felt like she was flying and his hand holding hers was the only thing keeping her tethered to the ground. 

There was nothing but him: his hand, cold and calloused, but so real and his shining eyes, full of love and longing. Yet even those wonders were lost as she drowned in the sound of his voice. She knew the melody; it was the same one he always sang to her in their secret moments in the dark. He sang with a passion and tenderness she had never heard the like of. 

“ _Come with me. Follow me. I am here and I love you_.”

Her head was spinning and she could barely breath again. She was afraid that if she moved to quickly or looked away from him she would wake from this sublime dream. Somewhere in her mind she was aware that they were moving. She could feel the chill of stone through her insubstantial slippers, and her skin was prickled with goose flesh. 

They were descending, down countless darkened steps, past the distant glow of massive furnaces, into a still, dark world of stones and shadows and damp. She would see an ominous arch, or great pillar out of the corner of her eye, illuminated by the faint glow of his lantern, but nothing really penetrated her mind except his song and the perilous joy of touching him at last. She didn’t care if she was being swallowed by the earth, or taken to heaven; she was with her angel. Nothing else would ever matter.

They stopped moving through the dark, but his song grew more enchanting, banishing every question or fear. Christine gasped as he gently pulled her close to him, his hand letting go of hers and slipping around her waist. She closed her eyes as the sensation of his body pressing against hers overcame her. 

She gripped him tightly, her breath catching in her throat. She was flying again and then she was suddenly seated. The world was rocking and moving all around her. She opened her eyes again and saw him above her, his eyes glittering in the blackness. She was still afraid that everything would fade again, as it did in all her dreams, but the fear was slowly being driven back by wonder. He was really there, utterly and absolutely real. 

The rocking had stopped and he was suddenly holding her again, but her head kept spinning. This time he did not let go so quickly, but lingered with his arm around her, as if he too did not want the contact to end. There was a breeze and they were moving again, his cool hand gently guiding her once more.

The light was brighter now, Christine realized, though it was very still dim. It only mattered to Christine because it meant she could truly see his eyes at last. 

They drew closer together, whether he moved or she did, she could not tell. He did not let go of her hand a she looked up, not into a face, but into a pair of shining eyes the color of the sea. She gazed into the eyes of her angel and knew she had come home at last.

 

Erik knew that this was the moment to fall silent. Music sustained her illusions as surely as any drug or madness. All he had to do was stop singing, and she would come back to reality.  
But how could he stop? Her hand in his was so yielding and alive. She hadn’t cringed when he touched her, though his own hands were cold as the grave. 

As he had guided her in to his world he had been amazed at the trust and love in her face. He had felt like a strange Orpheus, leading his love into to the underworld instead of out of it. The fleeting moments he had held her to place her in the boat had been so magnificent that he had barely been able to let go. How could he do it now, as she stared into his eyes with such awe and adoration? She was so beautiful in the darkness, her alabaster skin and white linen shift nearly glowing in the faint candlelight as her dark hair cascaded free down her back.

He pulled her closer, feeling the warmth of her body against his even as she continued to look into his eyes. She didn’t see a monster when she looked at him. 

He raised a careful hand to her face and traced the curve of her cheek and her smile only brightened even as she closed her eyes, lost in the sensation. When she opened them again, the light there was so brilliant Erik felt as if he might weep.

She raised her free hand in an echo of his gesture and tentatively she touched the exposed skin of his throat, caressing the place where she could feel the vibrations of his voice. Her fingers trailed up his neck almost to the edge of the mask and Erik fell silent, absolutely devastated. 

So this was what it meant to be touched with love? He had dreamed of this feeling for his entire life, but it was more beautiful and perfect than he ever could have imagined. Miraculously, the silence did not break the spell and her eyes were still full of love…because she was still touching him. Erik held his breath, terrified and tempted by the thought. 

“My angel,” Christine sighed as she pressed her palm against his skin. 

Erik covered her hand with his, barely able to breathe or think. She was touching him and his entire body and soul ached for more. It was not his yearning that broke him though; it was the desire he saw reflected in her forest eyes. She wanted her angel to truly touch her. 

And that angel would grant her one last wish as he fell.

“Christine,” he exhaled, a wave of hunger rushing through his blood. He closed his eyes and leaned forwards, his lips almost against her ear. He slipped one arm around her waist, her hands now both wrapped in one of his. For a moment he lost himself in the scent of her, like darkness and rain. 

“Close your eyes,” he whispered and felt her shiver. “Close your eyes…” he sang, a new melody, darker and more sensuous than before.

She obeyed with another sigh, her body arching against his as the music seeped into her soul. He held her tightly, adoring the sensation of her, but his racing heart and blood would not let him be still. 

He let a hand stray up her back and neck and ran his fingers through her hair until he found her face. His fingertips traced every curve of her features: her apple cheeks, her delicate brows, her raindrop nose. He stroked her eyelids, almost holding them closed, begging her with his voice and touch to never see him. He touched her soft rose lips and wished that he could kiss her, but a kiss would mean silence and heartbreak he could not risk. But he could touch her. He wanted to know every inch of her. 

Her skin was growing warmer and her breath faster as his hand slid down her long neck and traced the delicate edges of her bones beneath her skin. He found her hands where they were clasped in his and was surprised when she entwined her fingers with his own. His wonder grew as she moved her hands to cover his, and pressed them against her skin. 

The thrill was so intense that his eyes fell closed as well. He could feel her heartbeat hammering like his as she guided his hands across her breasts and a sigh escaped her lips. His hands pressed harder against her body and she gasped, perhaps in surprise or perhaps in pleasure. It did not matter because she was not pulling away. She was guiding him lower, letting him caress her ribs and stomach and hips. 

Erik didn’t even know how he continued to sing, but he did – lost entirely in her.

“ _Just close your eyes and forget all I’ve done, in the dark you are mine tonight. Close your eyes and forget all your pain, heaven is here in your arms. Close your eyes and forget who I am, except that I am yours._ ”

 

Christine didn’t see the darkness; on the contrary, the world seemed to be made of light and color. Each note and touch exploded in her imagination like ripples of lightning. Though she knew she was breathing hard and sighing at each caress, she heard only music. 

He touched her as she had dreamed he would, and yet it was so different. Some moments were so gentle and some so urgent and fierce it made her shake. His hands were not so cold anymore, she realized distantly, as they swept down her thighs. It was sublime, and yet, as it had been in her dreams, she longed for more. 

She guided his hands to her hips and did not pause as hers slid up his arms. She felt silk and velvet, but not skin. Was the rest of his flesh as cold as his hands or was it growing warmer as well? Her hands passed over his shoulder and to his chest where she found the starched linen of his dress shirt. Once again she found his throat and felt the soft vibration of his voice beneath the skin. 

How perfect that the place she could touch him at last was there…it was only the beginning though. He pulled back from her as her inept fingers fumbled with the buttons and tie at his throat, but only for a moment. His song grew deeper, full of loneliness and desire as her hands slipped beneath the cloth, finding him. Was it her hands that were shaking as she touched him or was it his body? It did not matter. She could hear in his music that he was as desperate as she that this dream would not end; not now, not yet. 

His hands were already sweeping over her again even as she hastily unfastened his shirt, then his vest. At last she pushed back the yards of fabric that kept him from her, her hands following the material as it trailed down his arms. 

His skin was fascinating and strange; cold at first but growing warmer. It was the texture that intrigued her – it was alternately smooth and distressed without a pattern. His hands were the same, she thought foggily, as she found them again in the dark. She leaned her head against the exposed skin of his chest, suddenly unsteady. Her heart was pounding through every fiber of her being, crying out to be closer to him, even closer than this. 

As if reading her thoughts, he pulled her tight against him and for the second time that night she felt herself being lifted from the ground and carried. She fought the urge to open her eyes as she wrapped her arms around him again, delirious and dizzy once more. 

His voice reminded her of his one command as he laid her down someplace soft and secret: “Close your eyes.” 

His hands were upon her again, even as her own hands rested on his bare arms. He made her moan as he pressed against her breasts and down her abdomen. She sensed him drawing away from her but refused to let him go. She wouldn’t lose him now, not with this strange heaven so close. 

His hands moved lower, sweeping the length of her legs and gathering the material of her costume and chemise as they swept back up. It was her turn to shiver as he tentatively lifted her and pulled the garments over her head and off, exposing the entire expanse of her body to the darkness. Her skin was alive and tingling with anticipation, and yet he seemed to be waiting again, trying to draw away. 

Blindly, she reached out to him in the dark, finding his hands once more.

“Do not be afraid.” 

Had she said it or was it he? Was the music she was hearing his voice or hers now? 

“Close your eyes and come to me. Close your eyes and forget everything but this.” 

With infinite delicacy his hands found her face again, her lips, her neck. How was it possible that so light a touch could make her entire body tremble and scream for more? His fingertips traced a line from her throat, down her chest and between her breasts and she arched her body closer to him. She ached for him, spurred by the delicate torture. 

As if he could read her desire in her skin he seized her breasts, suddenly frantic. She cried out as he massaged her flesh, her nipples hard between his fingers.

Christine had stopped thinking and dreaming and had given herself entirely over to feeling and hearing. This must be what an instrument feels as it is played, her soul sighed as his hands explore her body. If she had a thought it was the desire to draw her angel as close to her as possible. If she had a fear it was that he would suddenly slip though her fingers like a shadow and be gone. Her hands wandered across the landscape of his skin, feeling the sweat that materialized on it and the movement of the muscles beneath it. Her whole body was screaming out for him.

She held her breath, willing him to continue as his hands moved down her abdomen and to the point where her thighs were clasped loosely together. Between her legs something was so desperate for touch that it hurt. At last his hand delved between her thighs and she called out to him, shaking, as her head fell back. The hand that caressed her was so warm now as it discovered her and the reaction of her body was deafening. 

Her arms wrapped around him, gripping him hard as he continued to touch her, each movement causing her to shudder and sigh. Even in this ecstasy she wanted more. She felt him seeking her more deeply yet still drawing himself away as he did. Her breaths came ragged and her thoughts broken, but she knew she couldn’t let him go. Her hands flew over his back, his arms and shoulders and to the edge of his face. 

Swifter than the wind his hands were suddenly on her wrists, forcing her arms above her head and away from him. She gasped, but her eyes remained closed. For a long moment she was terrified that he would not continue, though some small part of her questioned why he had stopped her. In an instant though it did not matter. One hand had released her and swept over her body again.

From far away she heard herself calling to him for more. There was a distant rustling and she felt him moving above her, then the weight of his body pressing upon her, a strange, warm assortment of hard and soft. 

She was trembling and panting now, as was he. His hand rested on her stomach, waiting while he remained above her. He was waiting for her, she realized. 

Bold and careful, she prized one hand free of his gentle grasp and found the hand that was waiting. She listened to the song of his breath, almost as sublime as the music still filling her mind. He gasped as she guided him to her again and wrapped her legs around him. He touched her urgently, his breath hot and fast against her skin, warm and alive.

The small voice in her mind that had awoken when he had not let her touch his face was suddenly screaming. 

She could feel him breathing, even as he pushed between her legs; he, who had told her that to breathe was to choose to live. How could a ghost breathe…

Christine gasped violently as she suddenly felt him within her, filling an emptiness she had not even known was there. Pain and ecstasy drove away every other thought. Her eyes had flown open in that strange moment of shock yet she saw nothing but blackness. She wasn’t sure if it was real darkness or if feeling had overrun her perception of any other sense. The pain was fading quickly as he began to move inside her. 

She embraced him as he pulled her close, free now to touch him again. There was no music but her cries as he pushed harder and deeper into her. She moved to meet him in a rhythm that grew steadily more urgent.

This wasn’t how it felt to be an instrument; this was how it felt to be music itself. Each touch was a crescendo, exploding through her. His hands seemed to be everywhere: tangled in her hair, insistent upon her breasts, pulling her hips to his, and at last again between her legs where he had become lost in inside her. He was seeking something as madly as she was. Shuddering explosions of pleasure only left her lost and desperate for more.

“Christine…” he spoke her name in her ear, breathless and wretched with want, yet still more beautiful than any sound in the world. It was all she had been waiting for. 

Christine whole body was suddenly pulsing, and yet incredibly still. She arched against him; her head thrown back in a voiceless cry, as the entire world trembled and exploded for an infinite, perfect moment. Somewhere in her consciousness Christine heard him calling out, and felt her angel shaking above her as her every muscle tensed and pulsed. 

As suddenly as the moment had come it faded and she felt her angel pull away from her. She entertained the vague thought that she was glad he had moved, for she was not sure if she could. She was spent and sated, and felt deliriously content. 

He was near her in the darkness, gently caressing her face. He pushed away tears on her cheek that she had not known were there. Christine wondered why she had wept: pleasure, or joy or pain. Perhaps it had been for all those reasons.

He pulled her close to him, and she rested her head on his bare chest, absently savoring the feel of his precious skin beneath her hands again. She could hear his heartbeat slowing and feel his breath on her face. 

There was something about his breath that made her feel an odd sense of discomfort – like thinking back to a bad dream she could quite recall. It did not matter: he was singing to her again. 

His lullaby crept into hers ear as gentle as the shadows around them, singing of darkness and love. She was ready to sleep forever, knowing she was safe and loved. Whatever fear or danger lurked in the shadows, she would not see it.

“ _Close your eyes_ ,” he sang into her dreams. 

~

“You know, I’m quite impressed you managed to lose two sopranos in one day,” Armand Moncharmin’s lover drawled lazily from the bed. 

“Christine Daaé is not lost, just misplaced,” the manager muttered shyly as he searched the small, untidy room for his overcoat. He was not terribly committed to the endeavor, since he was not excited by the prospect of returning home. His housekeeper always gave him such reproachful looks when he came home so late at night that it could be considered early in the morning.

“Well, as long as you keep the two of them apart and far away from me, I really don’t care.” 

Armand gave half a smile, enjoying the warm, deep sound of laughter behind the words. He gave up on the coat and focused instead on buttoning his now very wrinkled shirt. At least he had found his spectacles easily.

“Is Carlotta really so bad?” he asked half-heartedly. 

He had already heard enough gossip to know the answer. More surprisingly, he had encountered enough patrons at the reception who had indicated they were interested in seeing the more seasoned diva return – if only because she could at least be bothered to greet them and beg their favor and indulgence. 

Armand turned to face the bed again, taking in the magnificent sight of Robert Rameau tangled amidst the sheets, utterly relaxed. 

Oh, to be an artist. To disappear on the night of one’s greatest triumph in to the arms of some secret lover, as it was generally agreed Christine Daaé had done; or to simply lay abed after an unexpected encounter, as relaxed and natural as rain. Armand sighed as he sat on the corner of the bed.

“They say she’s the one thing people fear more than the ghost,” Robert remarked with a shrug. “I certainly would rather face his wrath than hers.”

“You believe in this…phantom?” Armand asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Of course, I even saw him once, a year or two ago,” the bass answered, as if it was the simplest thing in the world. “He’s always enjoyed my performances, or so I’ve been told. You’ll probably receive his review of the gala in a day or two.”

“I certainly look forward to it,” the manager muttered. 

“You must tell me what he thinks of Daaé,” Robert mused, running a hand through his thick, dark hair and causing the muscles of his chest to flex and Armand’s heart to jump. “I have a feeling he will be quite an admirer.”

“Maybe he will tell me where she got off to,” Armand jested absently.

“Oh I’m sure he knows,” Robert laughed. It reminded Armand of the way he had laughed as the devil when Faust had swept in to seduce Marguerite. 

“From what I understand, there are any number of places in the Opera where one can get lost,” Armand sighed, suddenly overwhelmed again by the thought that he had become entangled in something far beyond his experience as a lesser functionary in the ministry of fine arts.

“Oh there certainly are, my friend,” Robert replied with a wicked smile. It was the same bold, confident smile the bass had given him in the quiet corner of the ballet salon where they had found themselves hours before. “Would you like me to show you where some of them are?”

“Oh God, yes,” Armand sighed, carefully removing his spectacles as Robert leaned towards him and took his hand. The devil could take his prying housekeeper. The devil would certainly be taking him.

~

Gentle sunlight was streaming in through the windows and clear blue sky was distantly visible beyond the skylight above the grand staircase as Erik walked through the foyer. It was so cold where he lived; he never remembered that until he felt how warm it was here. 

“You really should not have come here, you know,” Shaya reprimanded absently from beside him. 

“I know,” Erik sighed, casting a sidelong glance as his old adversary. “It’s just so beautiful during the day. I miss seeing it this way.”

“Daylight is for the living,” Shaya shrugged. “And the innocent.”

“She wants me here though,” Erik protested and looked up to the distant gallery where Christine watched, resplendent in a gown of white. Her face was thoughtful and troubled.

“You’re wrong, Erik,” Shaya countered, cold and reasonable as ever. “She does not want you.” 

Erik shook his head. He refused to believe that. There had to be a part of her that knew he had a right to be here, just the same as anyone else. 

He looked back to where she waited. She was not alone now. The boy, that terrible boy, was with her, bowing and kissing her hand. She was smiling at him. 

Erik cried out in anguish as he rushed up the stairs to them.  
“You’re too late,” Shaya warned behind him. 

Erik was facing them in an instant, pushing the boy away so he could face Christine. She was staring at him in confusion though, as if she did not know him. 

“What have you done?” she asked softly.

“Monsieur, please leave us,” the boy ordered haughtily from behind them. “My lady obviously does not know you.” 

Erik rounded on the boy in rage, gripping the cold steel in his hand. He plunged the knife through the boy’s heart without a second thought. 

Christine screamed and Erik turned back to her. A terrible red stain was spreading from her chest over the white silk of her dress. She fell to the cold marble, gasping for breath.

“Christine, God, no…I didn’t mean…” Erik sobbed, taking her body in his arms, his blood-stained hands marring her dress. 

“I told you, it is too late,” Shaya whispered, standing over them, weeping tears of blood.

“No…” Erik moaned. He held his beloved tighter in his arms. She was still so warm; he would not let the cold and darkness take her. 

But the light from the windows had already disappeared. 

“It is too late,” a new voice repeated. 

Erik looked up at the corpse that had taken Shaya’s place, a terrible wound bleeding from his heart; a wound that Erik had put there. His own terrible face stared back at him coldly before the horrific apparition seized him. One cold, skeletal hand locked like a vice around his throat. 

“ _What have you done_?”

Erik’s eyes flew open in terror as he woke, choking for air. 

It had only been a dream, he told himself feverishly as his heart slowed. Christine was alive and innocent in the world above and he was safe in the darkness. There was nothing to fear. 

Awareness of his body was slowly creeping back as the dream faded. Something was still not right. There was weight against him in the dark and he still felt so incredibly warm…A soft sigh came from beside him in the blackness of his room and he gasped as the memory of the previous night crashed into his mind like a tidal wave. 

Every defense in his body came to life as Christine stirred sleepily beside him. 

She could not wake up, not yet! Not before he had time to think…Think of _what_? Gently he stroked her soft hair and felt her relax against him, innocent and untroubled. He could barely take a breath. 

_What have you done_?

He shut his eyes as the memories flooded back, answering the accusation. He remembered every moment. 

He remembered her hands guiding his over her body and his shock as she had begun to touch him in the same way. He should have stopped when she began to undress him, but he had not wanted the miracle to end. It should have been enough to feel her caress his scarred skin with such tenderness, but her touch had only driven him to sweep her into his arms and to his bed. 

There had been a moment, when at last she was bare and ready, that he had hesitated, terrified. Yet, how could he have resisted when she reached out to him in the dark and told him not to be afraid? From then on there was nothing that could have stopped him; his certainty in that regard filled him with a new wave of sick terror.

He had given himself over to desire completely. The feel of her responding beneath his hands and the sound of her cries had been exquisite and astounding in the heat and the darkness. How sure was he though that she had not been struggling or that her cries had not been of fear or pain? No, she had wanted him to keep touching her. She had called out for it. He had stopped her from touching the mask, terrified that if she did the spell would break. Instead of struggling she had found him, guided him to her. She had let him take her.

Erik let his head fall back as he remembered the glorious feeling of life and connection in her arms. He had never been touched like that. He had never known such pleasure or that he could give another the same ecstasy in kind. The way he had felt her entire body lock around his when he had whispered her name had driven him to a climax and release like he had never felt…

Christine moved against him in the dark again. He felt the brush of her flesh against his and the soft touch of her breath on his chest. Without warning the same desire that had defeated him before was choking him again. She was there in his arms and he wanted her more than anything, no matter the cost. He would never know that feeling again, not after she knew… 

No, he could not give in again. He had to get away from her, to where he could think clearly and protect her. He forced his body to move, slowly disentangling himself from the sheets and Christine’s arms. She made a soft noise of protest as he pried himself free of her embrace and he stopped. He could feel dim eyes trying to focus on him in the dark. 

“Sleep,” he whispered plaintively, moving near her again. 

He leaned in close to her. Would he ever feel her this close again? Would she understand anything? He drew closer to her, his hands barely touching her sweet face. Now was the time for one last stolen touch, one last act as her angel. Soft as starlight, he kissed her forehead.

“Forgive me,” he breathed against her skin then turned away.

He dressed silently in the dark before he lit a few more candles. Farther from Christine, he thoughts came more clearly, but that was of little consolation, since the more he thought, the more distressed he became. 

He retrieved her clothes from the floor with shaking hands and set them beside her. He stared at her lying in his great dark bed and felt his heart break again. Was there any way to salvage this? He could return her to her dressing room now; but that would be impossible to do without waking her. Perhaps if he drugged her…No, he had meant to tell her last night and failed miserably. He would do one bloody thing right.

He left the room, hoping for a clearer mind when the evidence of his crime was not resting in his vision. He stoked the fire. At least he could keep her warm. 

Questions he had no answers for besieged him as he collapsed into a chair by the fire. Thinking was useless; he had done so little lately that he must be out of practice. He considered turning to his music but that would wake her and he wanted these last moments of innocence to last as long as possible. 

There was nothing to do now but wait. 

~

Raoul threw off the suffocating sheets, finally giving up on sleep. His mind had been racing for hours and even when he had managed to sleep, restless dreams had filled his head. He kept reliving the moment in Christine’s dressing room. Sometimes things would go right. He would not make a fool of himself and she didn’t laugh at him. Instead she smiled that wonderful smile he had dreamed of for ten years and took him in her arms. 

Other times the man who had spoken walked in and laughed at Raoul with her. He couldn’t dream up any real face to match that strange, beautiful voice. Why had she laughed at him, when she had seemed to recognize him?

Raoul rose listlessly from his great, canopied bed and strode to the window. It was still completely dark outside, not even a hint of dawn warming the clouds yet. The walled garden below him was barely visible. 

He remembered nights when he was a child and he had been so certain that the trees and bushes had been monsters waiting to devour him. He shook his head, remembering confessing the same thing to the violinist’s daughter who had sung so wonderfully by the sea. 

She had laughed then too, but it had made him feel ten feet tall rather than like an insect.

“ _You must never be frightened of monsters_!” she had told him. “ _If you are brave and good, they cannot hurt you. Simply tell them you are not frightened and they will disappear_.”

“ _I’m not frightened of them anymore_!” he had protested boldly. After all, he was thirteen and had far outgrown such silliness at the time. “ _My sister is much more frightening any way _!”__

__She had laughed and run off at that. Raoul had followed but grown shy at the sight of her father, taking her hand and leading her away. The man had been tall and imposing, with sharp, dark eyes that looked right through you. It had taken Raoul weeks before he had not felt like he was a criminal on trial when the man looked at him. His face had been so different when he looked at Christine though. It was like the way her face was so sad sometimes, when she looked out to the sea, but simply glowed when she smiled._ _

__It had been to earn the old man’s respect as much as to catch Christine’s attention that he had dove in after her scarf. The waters below the bluff at Perros had been so much colder than he had thought they would be, but he was a strong swimmer and his family never gave up once they set their minds on something. That was the only lesson he remembered from his father._ _

__The freezing sea and the pint of salt water in his lungs had been worth it, just to see Christine smile. When she had embraced him and called him her hero, he had felt like the happiest creature on earth. He had listened to her sing while her father played every day after that._ _

__“ _Papa will like you more if you’re more musical_!”_ _

__Raoul smiled to himself, remembering the disaster of Christine trying to teach him music. She had been dismayed at the reedy, wretched sound of his singing voice and turned quickly to piano. The diversion had lasted a week before even she had given him up as hopeless. He had been glad of it. Philippe and Sabine had been ready to kill him for the racket._ _

__“ _It’s alright, there’s so much more to you than that. You’re so brave and strong_!” _ _

__He blushed just remembering the earnestness of those compliments and how they had rendered him absolutely speechless. It had taken him days after that to remember to tell her that she was the brave one. In all his life before or since, he had never met someone who shone so brightly or was so different and alive._ _

__She had changed though. He had not seen it until after she had laughed in her dressing room. She was so beautiful even in her flustered state, but there was a shadow over her. She had seemed frightened of something. Was that why she had turned him away? Was it because of the other?_ _

__Raoul shook his head and sighed, leaning against the window frame. At last the sky in the east was turning from black to dark blue. It was a new day. A day he could use to find out why she had turned him away. If he could just ask her…Raoul frowned._ _

__Among all his memories of her he had almost forgotten the most important question: where on earth had she gone and how?_ _

__~_ _

__Christine did not know why she felt so cold. Had she moved without knowing it? She was in Marguerite’s garden, seated on a bed of soft, fresh grass, surrounded by flowers that seemed to sparkle. When was the last time she had seen a flower growing in the wild?_ _

__“You will have to leave soon,” his voice reminded her. She turned to where the ghost sat beside her, a strange shadow among the flowers and greenery. Even his mask was black. “Everyone else is already gone.”_ _

__“I know,” Christine murmured as she looked out into the empty theater._ _

__The lights had been put out long ago and the sea of gold and red had been transmuted to blue and gray and black. Even her garden was growing dark and the shadows were creeping over the grass. There was a cold wind blowing through the curtains in the wings._ _

__“I don’t want to leave though.”_ _

__“You don’t have a choice anymore.” Even his voice was cold now._ _

__Christine looked around at the garden that was beginning to wither and fade. How strange that it should die so quickly – it had not even been real. Snow had begun to fall, the soft flakes catching the light of the one oil lamp still left burning on the stage. The stagehands called it the ghost light._ _

__“Will you stay with me?” she asked him absently as she looked to the sky.  
Had she known that the building had fallen to ruins around her, leaving the theater open to the night? She loved the snow though. She loved the way it made everything clean and pure and beautiful for a while. She hated when it melted away._ _

__“You know I can’t,” her angel confessed from beside her._ _

__She turned to him again. He seemed to be fading into the snow._ _

__“Please don’t leave me alone here,” she begged quietly, though she knew it was in vain. There was nothing she could do to keep him with her now._ _

__“I’ll be in your heart,” he told her softly, one shadowed hand reaching up to caress her face. She stared into his blue eyes, wondering what magic made them glow with light in the shadows._ _

__“I don’t know who I am without you,” she whispered to him, trying to embrace him but finding nothing but shadow in her arms._ _

__“Yes you do,” he countered, his eyes full of love. He leaned close to her and kissed her forehead. “Keep breathing,” he entreated as he exhaled against her skin._ _

__Christine pulled back, trying to remember something she had lost. He caught her gaze and nodded._ _

__“It is time to wake up, my love.”_ _

__Christine’s eyes opened slowly in the dark._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah. I know. Probably a bit of a surprise? If anyone thinks I need to add content warning etc., please let me know.


	13. Shattered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik is finally unasked.

Something was not right. She had expected to feel the familiar contour of her dressing room couch, but the mattress was far too soft beneath her and the sheets were smooth against her bare skin as she stirred. 

Christine awoke fully with a start, clutching the covers around her body and remembering. The journey in the dark, the sound of his voice and the touch of his hand and more had not been a dream. 

She moved slowly to sit up, but a wave of aching rushed up from her abdomen. The pain made her catch her breath in shock and she shivered as she stared around the unfamiliar room. 

Nothing that met her eyes made sense or soothed her rising panic. She was in a bedroom, that was quite obvious, but it was incredibly strange. The only illumination came from dozens of candles set throughout the room and resting in glass encasements adorning the wall. The light however was absorbed by the gloomy colors all around. The floor was covered in dark, thick rugs. The walls were hung with black cloth, like the curtains in the wings of the Opera. Amidst the curtains were paintings that she could not concentrate on enough to make out. She was laying in a large four-poster bed covered in black sheets and blankets. The bed was like nothing she had ever seen, carved from rich ebony wood to look like it was still a living tree. The other furniture in the room was old fashioned and did not quite match. 

There was a door on each side of her, the one to her right was ajar and she could see there was light in the next room. The door did not preoccupy her though – she was more concerned with the fact that the room had absolutely no windows.

Where was she? 

The thought made her shiver again which in turn gave her another stab of pain, radiating from her thighs and stomach. She looked around frantically. There was a border of strange objects above the curtains. She tried to focus her sleepy eyes on them through the gloom…They were masks, dozens of masks of all different shapes and colors; a strange echo of the border of Greek masks that lined the roof of the Opera. 

The obviousness of where she was rushed over her. This was her angel’s home.

Why did an angel need a home? The question hit her like a blow as she drew a shaking breath.  
She remembered the feel of her angel’s breath in the dark, the scent of his skin and the sound of his heartbeat. Ghosts did not breathe. Angels did not have beds. Only a living man would have a heartbeat. 

Tears stung her eyes as her entire body began to quake. She caught sight of her white costume laid neatly at her feet on the bed and felt a wave of sickness. She pushed away the blankets and trembled in the cold air as she looked down at her naked body. There was the smallest stain of blood on her thigh and the aching came stronger from her groin when she moved. She remembered the moment when she had opened her eyes – that moment of pain and sensation so intense it had driven away every question she should have asked. 

She threw on her clothes guiltily; sure she would fall if she did not keep moving.

Christine stumbled to the open door, finding herself on the threshold of another windowless, candlelit room. She couldn’t make out a single detail; all she could see was the man waiting in the shadows. 

He was standing with his back to her and gazing into the flames of a crackling fire. He looked nothing like the legendary silhouette she had seen months ago in the corridor or the vision that had appeared like magic in her mirror and guided her into the dark. He just looked like a very tall, thin man with longish, unkempt black hair in a simple, black shirt and trousers. 

An angel wouldn’t look like that. She could see him breathing. Ghosts did not breathe. 

She gave a wretched sob as she leaned against the frame of the door.

The man in black turned quickly at the noise behind him. He was wearing the ghost’s white mask and behind the mask was the unmistakable confirmation of his shining eyes. She gave another sob, covering her mouth in horror. She wished she had enough tears to blot those eyes from her vision.

The stranger made a move towards her and Christine retreated instantly, escaping the trap of the doorway and inadvertently placing herself wholly in the same room with him. 

He moved towards her slowly. He looked as if was about to speak and the thought made her want to scream. 

_Please don’t be the voice, please tell me you aren’t him, please_! 

“Christine…” 

She doubled over in agony, her heart breaking at last. It was the voice she knew better than her own. The voice she had thought was so beautiful it could only come from heaven. It was the voice that had told her so many beautiful things, that had saved her soul with so many promises. And every one of them had been a lie. 

“Who are you?” Christine demanded, choking on her misery. 

The look in his eyes at the question was one of utter despair. She did not care. 

“ _What_ are you?”

“I am not an angel, or a ghost,” he answered regretfully, looking away from where Christine stood hunched with grief and rage. “I am a man, and my name is Erik.” 

“No,” Christine moaned shaking her head. “No, you can’t be…How could you…” It was too much to hear it from his lips. She felt sick and trapped and more than anything, utterly and completely betrayed. “How could you? How could you do this?”

“Christine, please…” the man who was not an angel entreated as he took another step towards her. He reached out a hesitant hand.

“Don’t touch me!” Christine growled, backing away immediately. “Don’t you _dare_ touch me!” 

The man’s hand fell and he drew back as if she had slapped him. 

“You lied to me,” Christine accused with a voice like ice. 

“I’ve lied for years, it wasn’t meant for just you,” he defended himself weakly, refusing to look at her. 

Christine shook her head. “No. You made me believe in an angel, not a ghost,” Christine rasped. “How… _how_ could you do this to me? How could anyone do this?”

“I never meant to hurt you,” he protested haltingly, bowing his head in something like shame. 

“ _Didn’t mean to hurt me_?” Christine repeated, incredulous. “You took every dream I had and distorted it to lies and for what? Why? Just so you could…” she covered her mouth, the aching through her body making her sick again. 

“I wanted to help you…” he attempted, earning a disgusted, humorless laugh from her. “I didn’t even think I would tell you…”

“But you lied to me!” Christine repeated, brutally, ignoring his excuses. “Why me? Why take everything I ever wanted and destroy it? Why be an angel?”

“Because it was what you wanted!” he cried out, turning completely away from her and Christine jumped back, stunned. 

“What I wanted?” she echoed him again. “Why did you care what I wanted? Why did it have to be lies? What kind of man are you? Why have you lied to everybody?” she continued, her voice rising as she advanced on him. He cringed with every word. 

“I had to,” he protested with difficulty, as if he was in real pain. “Please, try to understand…” 

“Understand? Understand what?” she berated him. 

He turned to her again at last, his eyes begging her for mercy. 

“I built my life on you! I lived for _you_! And it was all lies! Everything I believed; everything cared about was a lie. I gave you _everything_ …” Christine stared at the man who had so easily destroyed her, suddenly infuriated by his silence. For months his words had nourished her just as they had poisoned her. Now he had nothing to say, no explanation, no defense. 

“Tell me: what must I _try to understand_?” she continued through clenched teeth, still advancing on him. “Why have you done this?” she cried when he answered with muteness again. “Why tell me now? Why couldn’t you just let me believe? Why!” 

“Because I love you!” he burst out and Christine fell back a step in shock. “I love you,” he confessed again and looked away from her. 

Christine grimaced in disgust. She had known with joyful certainty that her angel loved her but the idea this terrible man should love her was unthinkable. 

“You love me?” Christine whispered blankly. “You _love me_ and still you lied to me?” She stalked towards him fearlessly, her rage nearing the breaking point. “And you tell me the truth now?” She had come within inches of him, her voice rife with righteous venom. 

He cast his eyes away from her. 

“You didn’t even _tell_ me; you waited for me to understand until after you had taken…” Christine took a ragged breath, unable to even speak of what he had done. 

“I never meant for it to be this way,” he whispered as he closed his eyes. 

Christine shook her head and contemplated the masked face a breath away from hers. Now that she wasn’t looking him in the eyes the mask itself came to her attention. 

“Yes, you did. You hid the truth from me willingly…and you’re still hiding from me, still lying…” she murmured darkly. 

His eyes flew open, now full of confusion as well as supplication.

“Christine, I’m sorry,” he pleaded, “forgive me.” 

Christine set her chin grimly and shook her head.

“No, my angel, forgive me.” Without another thought she tore the mask from his face. 

The mask clattered to the floor. She didn’t understand what she saw at first: a tangle of eerie scars and death. The twisted vision that met her eyes was barely recognizable as a face. She saw the remnants of what might have been a nose, though it was more like a hole amid a face covered in what might have been skin had it not been so pale and sickly, save for the white and red of scars. It was like looking at a corpse but with living eyes. It was the face of death itself. 

She had been wrong, she thought, as she began to shake, sickened by the hideous sight. This was not a man: this was a monster.

 

Erik felt the air rush against his face and saw the blank stare in Christine’s eyes, unable at first to understand why he felt it. He watched as the void dissolved into appalled disbelief and finally into a familiar terror…and he knew with stark horror what she saw. She stumbled back and shut her eyes.  
 _She was trying to get away_.

“Look at me.” 

The command was as cold as death but she continued to back away, trying to shield her eyes from the horrible sight before her. 

“ _Look at me_!” he screamed and pounced on her. 

She cried out as he ripped her hands away from her face and pushed his distorted visage into her vision. She opened her eyes and fresh terror filled them. 

“You wanted to see didn’t you? Well look! Feast your eyes on my curse!” he roared, the force of his grip on her wrists merciless. “Glut your goddamned soul!”

Christine heaved a dry sob, tears filling her eyes once again. She was shaking terribly as she struggled to get away from him. Erik pulled her closer, enraged at her tears and at the familiar disgust in her eyes and livid at her silence. 

“Why don’t you scream, my love?” he whispered poisonously and shook her roughly again. “People pay good money to see monsters so they can shriek: it’s _our_ payment you see. It’s my recompense for the crime of having this face. Shall I tell you how they locked me in a cage so they could scream? Or how they drove me into the dark? Shall I tell you how I took my revenge on them…oh they screamed then!” 

She tried to pull away again but he yanked her back to him by her wrists. He would not let her run. He grabbed her by her hair and forced her to look at him, ignoring her cries of pain and fear. He wanted more.

“They didn’t know that once they see me they are mine; just like you are mine, Christine,” he continued relentlessly, looming over her and seeing the horror reflected in her eyes. “You will stay here forever now because you know the secret! You have to pay for this knowledge. Where is my price? They all paid. And you are just like them!” he howled, tired of her sickening sobs. He hoped she could see him through all those pitiful tears. 

He grabbed her arms and shook her, digging his fingers into her flesh, but there was only weeping!

“Scream, Christine! Show me you’re really like them! Prove it to me! I can see it in your face. I can _see_ your horror! Please, don’t try to be polite and hide it. Scream!” he roared viciously, loosing all control as she continued to struggle to get away. “Scream so I can hate you! Give me a reason! Make me hate you, Christine! Make me stop loving you! Make this pain stop! Scream! _I want to hate you_! **_Scream_**!”

Slowly her sobs melted into a wail of utter terror. It grew louder and finally crescendoed into a ragged, piercing, horrible scream that tore from her throat, burning as terribly as the despair and fear in her eyes. The scream went on and on, as it echoed through the darkness it finally shocked Erik from his rage. 

He let go and she fell the floor like a corpse. 

Erik stumbled back, panting and sick as Christine huddled in a heap, heaving with sobs. He gasped as he crashed to the ground as well and covered his ravaged, bare face with trembling hands. At last he wept, the emptiness and horror consuming him. Her scream went on and on in his mind like the sound of his soul. 

 

Christine didn’t know how long she kept crying. 

The pain in her body, heart and soul was the entire world and time didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. The heartbreak was not enough to sustain her tears forever though and after what seemed like hours, her sobs quieted and the tears ceased to fall. 

She did not move from where she had fallen on the floor. To even just move would remind her of the life she would have to face when she opened her eyes. She fell totally still, not even breathing. 

What was the use in breathing anyway? She had come to life for an angel made of lies. Without him there was nothing worth believing in. There was no life, no music, no love; just pain and the dark emptiness she had escaped so briefly in the sound of her angel’s voice. Every word her father had said had been a lie, except when he had told her how love destroys. Her love and heart were as dead as he was now and there was nothing good or strong left in her…

_You think part of you died with him. The part of you that was brave, the part that could hope and believe_. 

Christine shut her eyes tighter against the memory of his voice, screaming in her heart against the lies. 

_You wanted to let it die, because if you were dead to the world, it could not hurt you again…_ She could not drive the thought of him away. He would find her even in the dark. 

Against her will she drew a shaking breath, cool air filling her lungs.

_Breathing is life; the conscious action of living. Somewhere deep within when you choose to breathe, you choose to live, some un-surrendering part of you chooses to continue._

She exhaled and inhaled again, remembering his gentle words. To her dull surprise she did not hate them. At least one thing had not been a lie. 

_So, I know you’re brave, Christine, because even with all the pain you know, you keep breathing_. 

Christine raised her head slowly, concentrating on each breath and trying to draw some sort of strength from it to give her the courage to fight. 

The man called Erik had collapsed too, weeping bitterly and hiding his head in his hands. She felt a swell of terror as she looked at him, even without seeing his abhorrent face, but it was mingled with something else she could not name. His long, thin hands were pressed over his ears, as if he was trying to keep out some terrible sound she could not hear. 

This broken man was all that was left of her angel, of the world she had known until her eyes had opened that morning. And she had destroyed him. He wanted to hate her and why wouldn’t he? 

Christine crawled toward him carefully, fighting back waves of fear as she retrieved his white mask from where it had fallen on the floor. She saw him tense as he sensed her movements, the way a child braced for a new beating. As he moved his head to look up, she froze, terrified of seeing his face and the rage in his eyes again. 

Yet when he did look at her she couldn’t look away, despite her revulsion. The anger in his eyes had faded to pure misery. These were the eyes she had seen in the dark months ago. With another halting breath she understood the feeling that was driving back the fear and anger. It was pity more intense than she had ever known.

Her hands shaking, she took a deep breath and held the mask out to him. He watched her without moving and slowly she saw a change in his expression, if any expression could be discerned from the horrific tangle of his dead features. She could hardly bear to look at his face, but his eyes were different. In the ocean of despair and loneliness, there was a flicker of hope. 

He reached for the mask, his hand trembling as much as hers. She did not look away from his eyes until the mask was in his hand. 

 

Erik took the mask from her quivering hand and replaced it to his face with defensive speed. The familiar protection of the molded leather against his skin again returned some of his composure. The relief in her expression when his face was hidden once again made him wince. She was still staring at him with pitying eyes, visibly pushing back her fear. 

He looked away, unable to even keep looking at her without anguish threatening to choke him.

“Please, don’t hate me,” Christine begged quietly, shocking him. 

He turned back to her and regarded her in surprise. 

“I could never hate you, Christine, no matter how I might try,” he whispered back. 

He watched the resigned relief in her face, as she retreated from him. She curled into a ball, her chest against she thighs and her arms wrapped around her legs, but she did not look away. He sighed as he leaned back, resting his body against one leg of his piano. 

“I would ask you not to hate me, but…” He shrugged.

“I don’t hate you,” Christine answered without hesitation. Her voice was calm and quiet, and yet it still surprised him. “If I hated you…” Christine stopped herself, as if the thought threatened to crumble whatever delicate strength was keeping her from breaking entirely. 

“Thank you,” he murmured, unsure of what else to say. 

He looked at her wearily. She seemed so out of place, a living thing in his private tomb. Then again, she barely seemed alive at the moment. He had destroyed her trust and her light, he thought with a stab of self-loathing. She had been the one person in the world he had never wanted to hurt, the one person whose pain had mattered to him, and he had been the one to violate and hurt her more deeply than anyone else. The fact that she did not hate him was a miracle. 

“What do we do now?” Christine asked hoarsely. 

“I don’t know,” Erik replied honestly. “I never meant for things to be this way,” he explained with a deep sigh. 

“What do you want?” she pushed, her eyes fixing on him with a mix of a fear and impatience. Her whole body was shivering now and he could see gooseflesh on her arms. Her eyes were rimmed with red from crying, her hair was unkempt and her face desolate and pale. And she was still the most beautiful person he had ever seen.

“Stay with me,” he entreated, unable to stop himself and her eyes widened in apprehension. “If you could just give me another chance…” he attempted again but stopped at the look of confusion on her face and the forlorn sound of his voice. 

“How can I stay here? After everything you’ve done to me, how can you ask that?” she asked him softly in return, shaking her head. 

He looked away from her, wondering if the pain she caused him would ever subside. 

“I don’t know you,” she amended, perhaps seeing his hurt. “I don’t understand who you are…I don’t even understand where _here_ is.” 

“And I cannot tell you,” Erik countered dejectedly.

“What?” she demanded, her brows knitting together. She looked almost betrayed before fear filled her eyes again.

“I love you…” she winced at the words, and looked away from him, clearly disgusted. Erik grimaced. “But I do not trust you. You may not hate me, but you have no reason to save me. If I tell you my secrets and let you go, how can I know that you won’t give them right to the managers, or the police, or some smiling patron?” 

She looked positively sick at the words. “I won’t…” she protested feebly. “I just want to go home.” 

It was his turn to cock his head in confusion. He had never heard her refer to any place but the Opera as her home, but she obviously meant that little room she went to on the nights she left him alone. He grew cold, remembering the terrible, empty nights without her close. 

“How can I let you go? How can I watch you leave knowing I will never see you again?” The thought brought fresh tears to the edges of his eyes. 

Her eyes were filling with terror again, and yet there was also fire.

“If you ever want me to trust you again, you cannot keep me here by force, you know that,” she pled even as Erik caught his breath at the sound of the words.

“You would trust me again?” 

Her eyes grew wide. Perhaps she had not realized what she had said. Her bottom lip shook as she searched for words, fear and panic battling on her face. 

“Is there…a chance?” he pushed, impatient and incredulous.

“Yes…”

The very word, no matter that it was breathless and frightened, made Erik’s heart jump foolishly, even know it could be a lie. 

“If you just let me go,” Christine added anxiously. “Earn my trust, let me earn yours. Please…Erik.” 

It was the first time she had ever said his name. He felt the same way he had the night before, the first time she had touched him, as if he was coming back to life. He nodded without really thinking about the gesture, barely able to look at her as his mind raced.

“Alright,” he murmured as he stood. 

She did not move but continued to shiver on the floor below him. He did not want to risk extending a hand to help her up, just to see her grimace at the thought of touching him again. 

“Come on then,” he prompted her and turned away, moving towards the door. 

He grabbed the hooded black cloak from where he had left it the day before, when everything had been so full of a hope bright as the sun. The hope he was hanging onto now was as dim and frail as winter starlight. He wrapped the cloak around his shoulders, glancing back to watch as she stood from the floor with difficulty. 

She caught his eyes with a look of dread and sadness that stabbed like a knife. The moment when she had stood before him in his home for the first time, unafraid and full of joy seemed like a memory from another lifetime. He could read the thoughts in her eyes as easily as notes of music in a score, perhaps because they were the same thoughts filling his own mind. Keep breathing, hold on to whatever perilous hope you can find, fight through the dark to the next moment until you can forget.

“Follow me,” he commanded as he looked away. 

He heard her soft footfalls behind him as he opened the door to the lake and stepped out into the blackness. She hesitated to follow into the dark. There was no music or angels to guide her now. Erik retrieved the lantern, relighting it quickly. At least he could give her light. 

The door to his house closed behind her as she stepped fully onto the shore of the lake, startling her. She looked cold and terrified in the flickering orange light and Erik hesitantly held out a hand to her. She looked from his hand to his eyes suspiciously, as if she expected some trick. 

“The way up can be dangerous, even with the light…I do not want you to fall.”

Almost as slowly as she had done the night before, she reached out and took his hand. She shivered as her fingers touched his, but she did not pull away in terror or disgust. Erik took another deep breath before raising his lantern and guiding her into the subterranean dark. He did not to look back at her as they skirted the lake and then ascended through a tunnel that was almost impossible to find if you did not know where to look. 

Orpheus once again, he thought bitterly No, he that wasn’t right: Orpheus had belonged in the land of the living. He belonged in the underworld. Erik pushed back the thought, trying to sort out what he was going to do or say to her when they reached the edge of his realm, reminding himself again of how terrible he was with plans. 

At last they came to the end of the tunnel, a place that would look like a dead end to Christine. He turned back to her as he hung the lantern on a rusty hook on the dark stone wall. 

“I cannot take you much farther,” he told her as he released her grasp. Perhaps unconsciously her hand contracted into a weak fist and she rubbed the place his hand had just been, whether in revulsion or simply because of the cold, he couldn’t tell.

“Where are we?” she asked, her voice grim and suspicious. 

“We’re almost where I was when I first saw you,” he answered wistfully, forgetting himself as he looked at her.  
She caught his eyes in bewilderment. 

“This is a door, back to your world. It lets out in the stables.” 

“I can go?” she asked, glancing at the strange gate. “Just like that?”

“No.” 

She did not seem surprised. She knew nothing was that simple. 

“You said I could earn your trust, so you have a choice. You are free to return to the light, but if you…” he could still not even bear to speak the words that held such mad dreams. “If it is your wish, you can return to me. I can still teach you.” 

Christine looked at him darkly, considering the offer but not visibly moved by it. 

“If you earn my trust, I will give you every answer you desire. No more lies.”

“Earn your trust?” she echoed with difficulty.

“Keep my secret,” he explained simply. “Tell no one what you know or what you have seen.” 

She nodded in comprehension, but her expression remained impassive.

“What if I don’t want to come back?” she asked faintly, her eyes avoiding his.

“I cannot stop you if you wish to retreat to that world,” Erik replied, hating the taste of the words in his mouth. “But if you do not want me in your life, you cannot come back to my opera.” This did draw a reaction from her – a look of appalled shock. “If you ever wish to sing here again, do not think to do so without my protection. If you ever return to the Opera, I will find you,” Erik reiterated. 

Her eyes flew back to his, sparking with anger. “Come back to you or never sing again? That’s not a very fair choice,” she accused coldly. 

“Very few choices are,” Erik said with a little shrug. “This is not a threat, Christine, it is simply the truth. That is what you want, isn’t it?” 

She glared at him. “What if I decide to tell them who you are?” she threatened in return. 

“Then the fate that befalls them will be on your conscience.” 

Fear washed away the anger in Christine’s eyes immediately. She swallowed and looked away from him, shivering again.

“How long do I have to make this choice?” Christine demanded tiredly.

“Until tomorrow night,” Erik answered calmly. 

He pushed a loose stone on the wall and it began to move on its own, the same way the door to his house had closed itself. Dim light was filtering into the tunnel from outside. He felt Christine follow as he moved towards an ancient looking iron gate. Even with the distant light coming in from the stables, it was almost impossible to see it. Christine was looking at it with puzzled interest as she shivered. 

“Come back here at sunset, and I will be waiting. If you are not here when night falls, I will know I have lost you.” 

She nodded listlessly then drew her arms around her. 

He unlocked the gate deftly and pushed it open for her to pass through. To his surprise she did not move.

“It’s colder here,” she muttered as she glanced towards the distant, faint daylight, still hesitating. It was February, Erik remembered. It would be a long walk home in her flimsy costume. Without another thought he swept the heavy cloak from his own shoulders and around hers. 

Christine’s face turned to him in shock as he fastened the clasp at her throat then raised the hood over her head. Her green eyes showed no fear, or sadness, or even anger. The pity that he had seen there remained, but it was mingled with something like curiosity, or perhaps a hint of the wonder that had filled her when she had seen her angel at last. 

Erik lost himself in her eyes, overcome by hope and memory in waves. Nothing ever seemed clear when he was close to her like this. Entranced, he raised his hand from the hood to her pale face and trailed his fingers across her cheek and she caught her breath. He wondered if he was touching her for the last time. 

“Come back to me, my Persephone,” he whispered to her, beseeching her with all of his soul. 

She gave a quaking sigh before her whole body shuddered. 

He withdrew his hand instantly. She backed away from him through the gate and towards the main stables, still holding his gaze. He wished he could pull her back, force her to stay or understand or even just listen. Watching her go had never hurt so much before. He inclined his head in a small nod, telling her without words that she was free for now. 

She turned away and Erik felt the moment shatter. He tried to stay strong as he retreated into the dark, unable to bear watching her leave without even a look back.

“Come back to me…” he prayed to the darkness as it swallowed him.

 

When Christine turned back, he was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just one chapter left...in this book. Good thing there are two more, eh?


	14. Persephone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christine makes her decision.

Adele was surprised to see another lonely soul making their way down the Rue de Notre Dame des Victoires in the washed-out light of the winter morning. The figure in black was moving from the direction of the Opera, opposite from the way Adele was coming. If the other had not been walking so slowly, they might have both reached the Hotel St. Claude at the same time.   
Whoever it was though was moving as if through drifts of snow. It surprised Adele that she could not instantly tell if the figure was male or female. It surprised her even more to hear the patter of someone running behind her. 

The noise of the frantic footfalls was terribly loud through the fog of her faint hangover. Adele turned just in time to run into the little dancer that followed Christine around.

“I’m sorry!” the mad-eyed blonde cried, her face sheepish. She backed away from the Adele, as the older singer tried to regain her balance and composure.

“I’m sure you are,” Adele grumbled, making the little thing blush almost as red as the heavy winter cloak she wore. Adele didn’t bother to straighten her own brown dress – it was already wrinkled from a night on Antoine’s floor, and she would be out of it and in her own bed again soon enough. “What are you doing here, little rat?”

“I was looking for…Christine!” The dancer’s eyes had gone wide as she spied something over Adele’s shoulder. 

Adele turned and at last recognized the slow-moving figure in black. The Opera’s newest and most surprising diva did not look at all pleased to see her friends. She was paler than usual and appeared as if she had been crying very recently. There was a look of dejection on her face that was impossible to mask, though little Giry seemed blissfully unaware of it as she ran to meet her friend at the boarding house’s red door. 

“Everyone has been looking for you!” Meg exclaimed. 

Christine looked from her to Adele with a blank, lost expression. 

“You did cause quite a sensation, missing your own party like that,” Adele commented carefully.

“I didn’t realize anyone had noticed,” Christine muttered, almost a whisper. 

“No one even saw you leave your dressing room!” Meg squawked, aghast. 

Christine looked down guiltily. “I…” Christine attempted, but again she seemed too shaken to speak.

“Need rest,” Adele finished for her. 

Meg gave her a scandalized glare. “But I’ve missed mass again just to find you,” Meg protested as Adele wrapped an arm around Christine’s shoulder and moved to open the door.

“That’s between you and God then, little one,” Adele sneered, too tired on her own account and worried on Christine’s to tolerate much more.

“But he was – is looking for you!” 

Christine’s eyes flew wide with a look of fear and confusion that shocked both her friends.

“Who is looking for her?” Adele asked carefully, holding Christine a bit tighter. 

“Raoul de Chagny of course!” 

Christine visibly relaxed at the sound of the name. 

Adele shook her head. “Well, you can tell him where to find her now, I don’t think she’ll be going out for a while,” Adele chided and pushed the heavy door open. 

“But where did you go?” Meg demanded from behind them. Christine turned towards the dancer, her face grim and exhausted.

“Don’t ask me that, Meg,” Christine told the younger girl desolately. The look in her face made a chill go up Adele’s spine. “Don’t ever ask me.” The darkness in the soprano’s voice and eyes was enough to silence the dancer. 

Adele pulled Christine inside, giving Giry a quick nod then letting the door close behind her. She led Christine towards their rooms and noted the way her friend winced and caught her breath in pain as they went up the stairs. Christine moved away from her to open her own door when they reached the second floor. She paused, her hand on the doorknob and the hood of her black cloak covering her face.

“What do I do now?” Christine whispered, almost inaudibly.

“What do you mean?” Adele asked in reply, completely taken aback by the quiet desperation in the woman’s voice.

“All morning I’ve been trying to get to the next minute, to keep going, to get home. Now I’m here. What do I do?” Christine turned her face so that Adele could see her again. Her eyes were pleading, full of sadness Adele could hardly understand. If she had not known better, she would have guessed someone very dear to Christine had died.

“Get some rest,” Adele suggested uselessly, no idea what else to say. 

Christine nodded numbly and went into her room without another word. As the door closed, Adele waited tensely for the sound of weeping, but none came. As Adele entered her own room and settled into her bed, she shivered at the silence.

~

Erik closed the door of his home and leaned against it, pounding a loose fist softly against the dark, polished wood. Two days of waiting stretched out before him like a desert. He wished that he could fall into a dreamless sleep and pretend this disaster hadn’t happened. What a useless fantasy. He couldn’t sleep in the sheets where her scent still lingered without going mad with want and despair and no sleep for him would be dreamless. 

What could he do to distract himself from brooding on the pleasure and pain of those last hours? Music would be full of the sound of love and grief. He didn’t dare venture into the Opera, for fear of what unfortunate fate might meet anyone mad enough to tempt his wrath today. 

He turned with an exhausted sigh, leaning his back against the wall, and surveyed his strange, dark home. It was astounding how empty it felt without her there. The door to his bedchamber was still open he noticed and cringed at the memory of turning to see her leaning against the frame, overcome by the truth. He looked away to the other doors that led off the main room; one to what he liked to think of as his study, another to a store room and the last one leading to the one room he had built that had always remained unfinished. He had never really known what to do with it. 

Erik smiled ruefully to himself as a ridiculous idea seized his mind.

He moved swiftly to the plain door, a mad burst of hope feeding the flame of inspiration.   
He let himself into the darkened room. It shared a wall with the fireplace so it was always warm. She would like that, wouldn’t she? He had taken so much light from her world, but perhaps he could give her one more dream. All he had was dreams.

~

Christine didn’t move from the bed when the knock came at her door. 

She could tell by the movement of the light in the sky through her window that hours had passed. She had not moved since she had washed up and then fallen exhausted on the bed. It hurt too much to move. She hadn’t slept either. The strength that had kept her breathing was almost entirely gone. She felt numb and frozen, unable even to comprehend the events of the last night and day. 

She kept trying to play things out and understand: Her angel had told her to be ready for anything. Carlotta had disappeared like magic. She had sung out her soul to heaven and the applause had been deafening. Raoul had remembered her. Her angel had said she could touch him at last. When she had looked into the mirror and seen him there, she had been so sure that everything she had ever wanted was hers. And then he had led her into the dark. 

Her memory would go no farther than the sound of his voice in the blackness. She did not want it to. She only wanted to remember and not think about…

The knock came again and Christine turned her eyes to the door.

“Christine?” It was Adele, though she sounded uncharacteristically concerned. 

“Please, I don’t…” Christine protested ineffectively even as the door opened and Adele peered in. She was holding a steaming cup of tea on a chipped saucer. 

“I thought you could use this,” Adele told her simply, indicating the tea with her eyes.

Christine sat up with difficulty, the pain in her abdomen still smarting. For the first time the dark cloak he had given her fell away. She shivered as Adele came to sit beside her on the bed and handed her the tea. Christine took a sip without thinking. It had an unfamiliar, bitter taste but it felt very good to drink something hot. 

Adele’s caramel hair was down and she wore a simple dressing gown and an expression of understanding and care. 

“What is this?” Christine asked softly, inhaling the steam.

“Willow bark. An old midwife I knew used to swear by it,” Adele explained as Christine took another sip. “It will help with the pain.” 

Christine’s eyes flew to Adele’s face. 

Adele took the half-drunk tea from Christine’s trembling hands with a resigned sigh and set it aside. “No one ever tells you how much it hurts – the first time,” Adele told her simply.

Christine shook as she held back a sob, even as Adele wrapped her arms around her. In a second she was bawling into Adele’s shoulder. 

Christine had not thought she had any tears left, but as her body was wracked with sobs, she realized she was crying for something different now. On the floor of the strange underground house she had wept for all the lies and the hurt he had caused her. Now she wept for the life and innocence she had lost. The foolish, gullible virgin she had been was gone now, along with all the dreams she had carried and Christine wept for her in mourning. Adele stroked her hair soothingly and rocked her like she was a child, even as Christine cried for the knowledge that she could never be a child again. 

At last even her new tears subsided and Christine simply leaned against Adele, grateful for the unquestioning compassion. Adele carefully handed her back the tea, though it was colder now. Christine took a deep sip without protest.

“Did he force you?” Adele asked gently, catching Christine’s gaze. 

Christine shook her head vehemently. He had deceived her, but he had not forced her, that much she knew. 

“Did he hurt you?” Adele continued, glancing at the faint bruises on Christine’s wrists. 

“No…not during…” Christine answered feebly. “He lied to me.”

“Ah, what a surprise,” Adele remarked with a cynical half smile. “What did he tell you: That he wasn’t married? Or that he knew the managers personally and would see to it that you would have every lead role from now on? Or perhaps that he loved you?” 

Christine looked away sickly and took another self-conscious swig of the bitter tea. “He…he just lied.”

“Did he make you an offer?” Adele asked casually, combing her fingers through Christine’s tangled hair. 

She turned and stared at Adele in shock. 

“Did he tell you that he would take care of you?” Adele clarified. 

Christine blinked. Adele clearly assumed she had been with a patron who had offered his support in exchange for her favors. In an odd way it was true.

“He did,” Christine answered, blushing and for the first time really thinking about the choice her angel had given her. No, not her angel – Erik. Go back to him and face the horror of the secret beneath his mask and lies; or leave the Opera and every dream or hope behind forever. The thought did not fill her with anger or terror, it only made her tired.

“Are you going to accept it? Or are you holding out for Raoul de Chagny?” 

Christine shook her head sadly at the suggestion, again feeling sweetly numb at the thought.

“I never would have had a chance with Raoul, even before,” Christine mused, thinking back regretfully to long summer days by the sea. 

“Perhaps not as a wife,” Adele suggested with a shrug but Christine shook her head again, yawning. “Well then keep this one.” 

Christine looked at Adele, her eyes perhaps would have been shocked had they not been so tired.

“How can I do that?” she asked unguardedly. “He…”

“He lied. They all do. Did he make you come?” This time Christine’s eyes did go wide. “Was there a moment, at the end of it all, when everything seemed…right?” Adele pried, responding to Christine’s unasked question. 

Christine nodded cautiously, unwillingly thinking back to the blinding feeling of completion and flushing at the memory. 

“Well that’s better than most then.”

“Adele, I can’t,” Christine protested, remembering the morning that had come after and all its horrors and grief. 

Adele gave a little scowl and stroked another lock of hair away from Christine’s face, brushing her cheek just the way he had. The memory made her shiver and close her eyes. She found that it was incredibly hard to open them again. 

“What else was in that?” Christine asked dreamily, glancing at the empty cup in her hand and feeling another wave of exhaustion wash over her.

“Laudanum,” Adele confessed. 

Christine gave a small, tragic laugh as she lay back on the bed. 

“Rest now,” Adele commanded. She shook her head weakly, pushing away thoughts of his voice in the shadows and falling asleep feeling safe. 

“I can’t…It reminds me of him…” Christine protested, suddenly terrified of the dreams that awaited and overcome by the feeling of the warm, dark fabric of his cloak being wrapped around her again. It still carried the faint scent of him.

“What does?” Adele asked for very far away, and her voice sounded like darkness. 

“Everything,” Christine breathed and the world faded to black.

~

Meg kicked grumpily at the cobblestones as she trudged towards the Opera. There was no use heading that direction but the path was so familiar, she had followed it anyway. Better to be here than at home with tedious chores and the glare of a mother who would want an explanation for her daughter having spent an entire Sunday wandering the city.

“Mademoiselle?” Meg turned curiously at the polite voice then nearly tripped over her own feet when she saw the face attached to the voice.

“Monsieur Le Vicomte!” she gasped. Was she supposed to bow? He was even more handsome in broad daylight than he had been backstage.

“I’m glad someone remembers me,” he smiled bashfully. 

Meg reminded herself to close her mouth and to at least blink. 

“I’m sorry, I don’t recall your name.”

“Meg, Meg Giry, well, Margaret Giry, but not one calls me that. Not Margret Giry – Margaret.” Meg bit her lip to stop the babble but the noble only smiled.

“It is good to officially meet you, Mademoiselle Giry.” Meg grinned as he gave a polite bow. His eyes were hesitant.

“You’re looking for Christine,” she guessed, trying not to sound too terribly disappointed.

“She’s an old friend of mine, really,” he protested, a charming blush coloring his cheeks. “Do you know where to find her?”

“I saw her this morning outside her home,” Meg answered distantly, distracted by the way the winter light played in his hair. His eyes filled with joy as he grinned. 

“Where does she live?” he asked breathlessly.

“On the Rue de Notre Dame des Victoires, the Hotel St. Claude.” He jumped and began to turn away. “She seemed very tired though, Monsieur!” Meg cried. “You might want to wait a day.”

“Oh, of course, yes…” he muttered. He looked at the ground then back at Meg. She tried to hide a sigh as he smiled again. “Thank you, Mademoiselle Giry.”

“Of course, Monsieur,” she murmured. He gave a nod and turned away. 

Meg turned back towards the Opera with a sigh, even less pleased at the sight of the great building than before. It was just another beautiful thing that belong to Christine that she did not seem to treasure at all.

~

Erik moved deliberately through the catacombs. These tunnels were not like the labyrinth of cold empty passages under the Opera where no one came for fear of a vengeful ghost. Here there was still much to fear, but people and things braved the dark despite the peril, making them all the more dangerous themselves. As a terror of the shadows himself, Erik knew this all too well. 

He was again clad in his accustomed sweeping cape and dark, wide-brimmed hat and looked every inch the fearsome apparition of legend. He barely made a sound as he swept through the hidden roads beneath the city, through air thick with the scent of earth and decay.

His journey out of his corner of the underworld had been mildly successful, and at least a good distraction from the maddening and heartbreaking thought of Christine. She had said there was a chance. She had to come back. Each time he told himself that he would think of a new reason why she would never return, and why she would be wise to do so.

Erik froze in his stride, listening to the darkness. 

Something had made a sound in the corridor ahead, something bigger and much less graceful than a rat. Erik fell back against a crumbling wall, his body tense and his senses on edge. He sniffed the air – there was no rotten smell of filth or reek of wine, which meant it was not some vagrant hiding from the winter cold. The footsteps, and he was sure now they were footsteps, were careful but not slow. Whoever it was knew where they were going, but was not a fool. 

The footfalls were rather heavy – not a woman then – and on well-made shoes. Erik watched as light from a dim oil lantern became visible from a passage ahead. At the same time the man sighed and managed to express more exasperation and discomfort in the sound than was usually possible. Erik rolled his eyes as the light came closer. The fool was either mad, or wanted to be caught. Erik suspected grimly which it was.

“Good afternoon, Daroga,” he greeted his old adversary smoothly, his voice as deep and cold as the shadows around them. 

The Persian jumped and nearly lost his grip on his lantern. His shock was only temporary and his face quickly set itself into the familiar expression of disapproval and distrust to which Erik was long accustomed. His eyes searched the dark for Erik for a few seconds before finding him. 

“I didn’t expect to find you so easily,” the detective grimaced. He did not move or take another step, careful to keep as much distance between himself and Erik as possible.

“May I ask what I have done to deserve the pleasure of your visit?” Erik asked, cloying and sarcastic. “Did you not enjoy the performance last night?” 

Shaya scowled, then flinched and drew back as Erik took a casual step towards him.

“Don’t play the fool, Erik, you know why I’m here,” Shaya barked, raising his lantern as if it was a charm to ward off evil. “Where the hell is Christine Daaé?” 

Erik let his eyes go wide in feigned shock and gave a little laugh. The Persian glared at him, unamused.

“Well, I am sure I don’t know,” Erik answered innocently; thinking to himself how ironic it was that he wasn’t actually lying. “Did you wish to compliment her on her brilliant debut?” 

“You mean the debut you engineered?” 

“Ah yes, you have me there, Daroga,” Erik sighed dramatically, lifting his long hands in mock defeat and causing the Persian to flinch again. “I expected you would approve though. Surely even you can agree that it was a great mercy for me to rid us of Carlotta’s screeching.”

“I’ve seen enough of your _mercy_ , Erik,” Shaya spit back and it was Erik’s turn to wince at the venom in the detective’s voice. “Where is she?”

“I told you, I have no idea,” Erik reaffirmed, his voice growing serious.

“She disappeared from her dressing room without a soul seeing where she went, don’t tell me you didn’t have something to do with that!” Shaya pushed and Erik took a deliberate step towards the smaller man. The righteousness faded a bit from the Persian’s eyes as he stepped away, his back now against a dingy wall.

“If you wish to know more of Christine Daaé’s whereabouts last night, I suggest you ask her,” Erik commanded, the words slow and cold. “My only interest in the girl is her voice, which I will continue to promote. If you want to find her I suggest starting at the boarding houses near Notre Dame de Victoires, half the Opera lives there I am given to believe.”

“And what do you suggest I do when I don’t find her?” Shaya demanded tensely, clearly on full alert in such proximity to the monster he had tracked and watched for so many years. 

“That is up to you, Daroga; though I do not think I need to caution you of the dangers of walking these roads alone again.” Erik took a slow step towards the Persian, who could retreat no further. “One never knows what sort of dangers lurk in the dark, and I may not always be here to protect you.” 

Shaya’s glare was one of pure loathing. Erik smiled cruelly at the edge of the mask as he gave a small bow and backed away. “When you do see Mademoiselle Daaé, please feel free to give her my compliments on the first of what we all hope shall be many extraordinary performances.”

“This is not over, Erik,” Shaya called, his courage returning as Erik turned away down the tunnel towards the Opera. He knew Shaya valued his life and limbs enough that he would not follow.

“Of course it isn’t over, Daroga, we are both still alive,” Erik called back without turning around. Erik laughed to himself, imagining the look of horror of the detective’s face. 

~

Richard was not happy to be answering his own door after dark on a Sunday. For years he had been trying to get up the nerve to undo his wife’s decision to give the entire household staff Sunday off. On days like today he was left alone in the cold, empty house with no one to tend the fires or deal with callers. 

He glanced to her portrait in the parlor as he strode to the door, where the visitor was still knocking insistently. Six years dead, and still the memory smarted.

“What?” Richard demanded gruffly as he swung the door open. 

The woman withdrew her hand from where she had been preparing to knock again. Richard was taken aback. Of all the people in the world he had expected on his doorstep, she was not one of them. He had been far too concerned with other matters to think to deeply on her sudden departure. 

“Don’t you have some prince to be entertaining?”

“There was no performance for the prince,” Carlotta growled, her eyes burning with barely checked rage. 

Richard raised an eyebrow, rather curious as to why someone would play such a prank on a leading lady. It did not concern him too greatly though, since he had got a much better tempered, not to mention cheaper, prima donna out of the mess. Of course Daaé had caused her own problems already as well.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Madame,” Richard lied curtly. “What does this have to do with me?”

“I would like to discuss my next performance,” Carlotta purred. Her face was still suffused with wrath and a rancor, but she was trying to make it look something like charm. Richard scowled as he opened the door to let the woman in from the cold.

“We already have arranged for Mademoiselle Daaé to perform,” Richard muttered as he strode to the parlor. He left it up to the raven-haired soprano to close the door after her and dispose of her voluminous furs. “If we can find the bloody girl…”

“There will be no need,” Carlotta protested with cold sweetness from behind him. “I have decided that my actions yesterday were not befitting of an artist of my rank. I apologize for leaving you to suffer through a performance without me and I am prepared to discuss the conditions of my return.”

“Conditions?” Richard balked and turned back to the woman. Her face was deadly serious. 

“These conditions of course are not just for me, but for the benefit of the many patrons that support me and wish to see me perform again as soon as possible,” she explained, the delicacy of her words doing nothing to mask the threat in her voice and eyes.

“How many patrons?” Richard asked tersely. Carlotta strode towards him, sneering in triumph already.

“More than you can ever afford to lose.” There was something cruel and cold in her eyes that made Richard again curse that there was no one left in the house to stoke the fires. The soprano did not look away and she laid her hand on his arm, half of a smile twisting her mouth. “And of course, I have more to offer than just the patrons. I am sure there is an arrangement we can come too.” 

Richard took a shallow breath. Wherever Christine Daaé was, it would be best for her to stay there.

~

It was hard even to wake up in a world without angels. Christine had done it though. She had somehow found the strength to wash and dress and make it downstairs to eat. Despite the desolation in her spirit she had been starving. She had taken her fifth croissant, still warm from the baker’s delivery, back up to her room, and chewed it thoughtfully as she stared out the window to the plain, orderly street awash in bright winter sunshine. 

How long had it been since he had seen the sun; the man who had made her believe, and then taken everything away? Christine closed her eyes on another rush of pity and fear. Questions like that didn’t matter. She could never go back to him, not after what he had done and what she had seen. She had been lying to him when she said there was a chance she could trust him again. She didn’t owe him anything but lies. Yet how could she stay away? Without him she faced a life devoid of any hope, where music would never sound again. And she did owe him more than deception – he had given her everything she had.

Christine absently pulled his black cloak closer around her shoulders. Strange, that the feel of it wrapped around her was comforting, not upsetting. It reminded her of the angel that had protected her, and not the terrifying man who had lied to her or the hideous thing that said he loved her. 

She shut her eyes tighter at the memory of his face and his cries of rage. He had said they put him in a cage…Christine stood up abruptly, physically retreating from the thoughts she could not keep at bay. Adele’s drugged tea had made her sleep late, and now it was almost noon. It was only a few hours until sunset. She had to make her decision soon.

She glanced at herself in the little shard of a mirror hanging on her wall. She was wearing her old gray dress. It had seemed wrong to wear the blue dress she had bought with money she had earned because of him. She had left her hair mostly lose, with only a few pieces pulled back from her face. It was not a style befitting a proper lady, but she had never been one for propriety. She certainly could not call herself a lady anymore. The dark cloak made her hair appear an even deeper shade of auburn and her sad, resigned eyes greener than usual. He had to hate mirrors, she guessed. How strange that his voice had seemed to come from one.

Christine turned and left the room, not even bothering to lock the door as usual, since there was nothing there to be stolen. She ignored the curious, stubborn voice in her head asking how he had made his voice come from the mirror. How did he convince people he was a ghost? Looking as if he was dead was certainly useful…

“Going out?” Adele asked from a seat in the parlor, pulling Christine from the tangle of her thoughts.

“Yes, I thought a walk might clear my head,” Christine replied evasively. 

“Well, stay warm,” Adele ordered sternly. 

Christine was struck by the possibility of never seeing her friend again. If she did not go back, she would have no place at the Opera and no reason to stay at the Hotel St. Claude. She would never laugh at Adele’s scandalous gossip again. She would never walk backstage listening to Meg’s stories. She would leave Julianne and Louise wondering what had happened to the girl they had done so much to protect and help. Adele had already looked away from her and back to the mezzo she was conversing with before.

“Adele,” Christine called. Adele looked up, obvious concern in her eyes, but said nothing. “If I don’t come home tonight…” 

“I won’t worry,” Adele finished for her, understanding. 

Christine closed her eyes and braced herself as she turned the handle on the door. If Adele knew that her strange, dark friend was leaving either to lose herself in the darkness, or never look on Paris again, she would not have let her go so easily. 

Christine took a deep breath of cold air as she stepped outside and closed the red door of the Hotel St. Claude behind her. She was still breathing, that meant something didn’t it? She looked to her left down the street, the direction heading away from the Opera. She could just start walking and never look back. If she walked long enough and far enough, perhaps she would reach the sea. She could go to Perros-Guirec and weep again over a cold grave overlooking the vast ocean, hoping that the angels would not answer with silence again. No, that dream was over, but perhaps it would not be so foolish to pray…

“Mademoiselle Daaé?” the voice from behind startled Christine and she turned quickly to face the man who had questioned her. She blinked a few times, uncertain if what she was seeing was real. 

The Persian, his head crowned with the dark fur of an Astrakhan cap, was staring at her, his eyes reflecting as much disbelief as her own.

“Monsieur?” Christine answered him, knitting her brow in confusion. This was the man that was banned from the Opera; the one who people said knew the ghost. Did he know? “May I help you?”

“Mademoiselle, I know you do not know me…” 

“I do,” Christine cut off his excuses and he seemed a bit shocked at her directness. Perhaps he had been expecting someone sweet and naive. He was to be sorely disappointed. “What do you want from me?” 

“I simply wished…to inquire as to your health and safety,” the dark-skinned man replied. Christine watched as his eyes surveyed her suspiciously. 

“My safety?” Christine parroted back, a twinge of alarm beginning to tingle down the back of her neck. “Why ever would you be concerned for my safety?” she demanded carefully, her eyes narrowing. 

The Persian’s face grew more serious. “I think you can guess as to the reason.” His voice was low and his eyes darted to the sides swiftly, as if even here he was afraid of being heard.

“Indulge me,” Christine ordered grimly. She wanted to hear the words spoken aloud. This man knew about Erik; she could see it in his face. 

“Mademoiselle, my concern is only for the safety of innocent people,” the Persian answered, his words tense and clipped as he leaned in closer to Christine. “He is a monster,” he whispered. 

Christine drew back, hoping that the strange man would take it as a sign of further confusion. She fought the urge to shiver at the terrible certainty in his words and the equally strong urge to tell him that he was wrong. She could not remember the sight of her lost angel weeping in the shadows, or the anguish and loneliness in his eyes and believe that. 

“Please, leave me alone,” Christine ordered with surprising firmness as she took a step around the Persian and began to walk resolutely up the street towards the Rue des Petit Champs and the Avenue de L’Opera beyond.

“Mademoiselle, please!” the Persian pled, following after her. “He is dangerous! I just want to find him!” He caught Christine by the shoulder, forcing her to turn and face him. Her eyes must have reflected her anger for his face fell instantly when she looked at him. He did not let go however. 

“I have said all I wish to say to you, sir,” Christine told him, unyielding and cold, wresting her arm from his unwanted grasp. The Persian was undeterred. 

“Mademoiselle, you do not understand…” he protested and moved to seize her again. 

“The lady clearly does not wish to speak to you, sir,” a voice came from out of nowhere at the same time the speaker moved between Christine and her pursuer. 

Christine’s mouth fell open in shock when she saw the familiar face. 

“I suggest you leave her be,” Raoul de Chagny ordered firmly, with a brief glance back to Christine. The Persian looked at Christine over Raoul’s shoulder, clearly frustrated, but resigned.

“Very well then,” the darker man muttered, stepping back to leave. He caught Christine’s eyes one more time. “He sends his compliments, by the way, on the first of many great performances.” The message sounded much more like a threat coming from the Persian’s lips and it made Christine’s insides grow as cold as the winter air around her.

“What was that about?” Raoul asked artlessly as he turned from watching the Persian retreat. 

Christine shook her head and looked to the face she had been so amazed to see staring down at her after the performance. He seemed rather nervous now, which was perhaps to be expected after how she had treated him. His cheeks were red, either from the cold or from running to her rescue, or perhaps both. He wore a heavy black wool coat and white scarf and carried his hat in his hands, which were comfortable in gloves of supple brown leather.

“Thank you, Raoul,” Christine told the noble young man softly and a grin broke out on his handsome face. “Again you rush in to save me, in my hour of need. At least you didn’t almost drown this time.”

“I knew you remembered!” he exclaimed and embraced her without any regard for propriety. 

Christine smiled for the first time in two days, safe in the warm circle of his arms. She regretted that he pulled away so quickly, blushing and releasing her politely.

“I could never forget you, old friend,” Christine assured him. The brightness and goodness in his face had not dimmed in seven years.

“You frightened me so the other night!” he lamented, shaking his head in wonder. 

Christine dearly wished she could take back that cruel laughter, especially knowing now who it had been that forbid her to consort with patrons and why. 

“You must forgive me for that, I was tired and…”

“It doesn’t matter,” Raoul stopped her excuses, clasping her hand in his. “I’ve been looking for you since yesterday, I’ve been so worried. After you vanished like that…” 

Christine felt the warmth he had made her feel flee instantly. For a few seconds she had forgotten that her world was in ruins. They weren’t children any more who could disappear into dreams.

“I’m fine,” she muttered and withdrew her hand from his. “I was just on my way…” Raoul’s eyes widened in suspense. “To church.” This seemed to be a comforting conclusion to him.

“May I walk with you?” he asked coyly. Christine smiled again and nodded as they began to move down the Rue de Notre Dame des Victoires. “I looked for you at mass yesterday, actually. Our family church is not very far from the Opera and some of the artists attend there, the second mass of course, not ours.” 

Christine hoped she would be able to follow him to the church. She had been planning on entering the huge edifice of Notre Dame des Victoires for the first time, since it was only a few steps from her door, but Raoul’s church sounded more welcoming. 

“After you didn’t come, I went back to the Opera. I found your friend, the dancer – Meg, I think? She told me where I might find you today.”

“You went to a great deal of work to find an old friend,” Christine murmured, looking down. Out of the corner of her eyes she could see he was blushing.

“You’re more than an old friend,” he muttered shyly and Christine felt her cheeks warm as well. “I’ve been coming to every performance I could, just hoping that I might be able to see you in the chorus again and perhaps find the courage to speak to you…” 

Christine looked up at him just as he looked away from her in embarrassment. 

“You noticed me?” 

“Of course, I saw you in the salon after a performance weeks ago…but you disappeared before I could talk to you.” 

Christine’s blush deepened, remembering the night. She grew cold with regret at almost the same instant, remembering the morning after, when her angel had told her that he loved her. 

“I kept coming back but I could never work up the courage to talk to you. Well, until the other night when you were suddenly a star. You were so fantastic that I couldn’t stay away. You’ve become a great diva, just like your father said you would. He must be so very proud.”

Christine tried not to stumble as a new barrage of dejection and hopelessness hit her like a blast of cold air. 

“Father died over three years ago,” Christine confessed and Raoul’s face fell.

“Oh God, I’m so sorry,” he apologized instantly and with utter sincerity. “That does not mean he is not proud though.” 

She knew Raoul had meant well by the comment, but it stabbed her. That was what the angel had said; perhaps his most terrible lie. 

“I’m so sorry, Christine, I have upset you.”

“You didn’t mean to,” she consoled boy she had played with and adored in the summer sun by the sea, under her father’s watchful eyes, and wished for nothing more than to go back to those bright, simple days.

“Can I make it up to you?” The offer jostled Christine from her dark thoughts and she looked up into Raoul’s hopeful brown eyes. “Let me take you to supper, you can tell me all about your adventures at the Opera, and I can tell you about what a great diva you will be.” 

Christine looked away and found that they had come to a halt in front of a small but beautiful old church tucked away on a side street. The carved faces of saints and gargoyles stared down at her from above the door. Angels and monsters were still watching her every step.

“I can’t – not today,” she answered, trying to sound demure or coy and not like she was unsure if she would even be in Paris or the land of the living when night fell.

“Tomorrow then?” Raoul prompted cheerfully. 

Christine caught his eye and his expression grew considerably more serious, perhaps almost hurt. She shook her head. 

“Who is he?” Raoul demanded dejectedly and Christine felt her heart stop. “The other night, before you vanished, I heard a man’s voice in your dressing room. I know that as an…artist you must have many admirers, but all I’m asking is for a chance to win you…” he faltered as Christine moved away from him towards the door, hoping to hide the tumult of emotion on her face. 

“He is of no concern to you,” Christine told him nervously.

“He is not a suitor then?” Raoul pushed, oblivious to her distress. “I heard him sing to you. Than voice, it was like an angel…” Christine spun to face him and he froze.  
“Believe that then, Raoul,” Christine pled darkly, envying her former friend. “Believe it was my angel of music. It will be easier that way.” 

Without another look or word Christine turned and opened the door to the church, hoping that Raoul would respect her enough to leave her to pray in peace and would not wait for her. The bewildered, hurt look on his face at her last words told her it was very unlikely.   
It was also useless. The girl he was waiting for was gone.

 

Raoul watched the heavy door of the church close behind Christine, unable to understand what had just transpired. It had seemed like a miracle to find her safe and even more so that she had remembered him. Yet nothing had been quite right and their reunion was again not as he had imagined it to be. Once again, she had left him with more questions than answers and the strange feeling that she needed to be protected.

Raoul sighed and turned back down the street, regretting that he had left his carriage at home. It was a long walk back to his family’s walled estate in the fashionable district near the Seine. The house had been built over twenty years before, just after he had been born. Philippe liked to tell him stories about the old Chagny manor, which had stood near the little church Raoul now had at his back. They still came to services there, and the Chagny family would be buried in the tombs below until there were none of them left. 

Raoul replaced his hat and glanced at the sky, which had been so clear and bright only an hour before. Dark clouds were edging in on the blue now, threatening snow. It was fitting for the events of the day, he thought as he shivered. He had waited for Christine for years, looking for an angel. Now he had found her at last and something had changed. How could he have watched her on the stage for nearly two months and not have seen it? 

He had fallen in love with her all over again, and then somehow he had lost her just as swiftly. He shook his head to himself as he quickened his pace towards home. He would not give up that easily. 

 

Christine knelt in a pew in the empty church, thoughts pounding against the defenses of her mind, endless questions and echoes of an angel’s words of love and faith. She closed her eyes and saw his face and even in the cold her skin remembered the sin of his touch. How could she stay away? How could she go back? She rested her head on her hands, which had been clasped loosely, prepared for a prayer she couldn’t even bear to speak. 

She felt more absolutely lost than she had since she had whispered to the dark on her first night in the Opera. She had wanted her father’s ghost to hear her, but a man in a ghost’s mask had listened instead. How? Why? 

“Fuck…” she swore through a sigh as the cycle of questions, pity and despair threatened to begin again. 

A soft cough from the vicinity of the altar made her head snap up. An embarrassed looking young priest was staring at her. 

Christine fought the urge to swear again as her cheeks reddened. “I’m so sorry!”

“It’s alright…” the impossibly young-looking Father stuttered kindly as he came towards her. “I can’t help but discern that you are in some distress,” he continued as he took a seat next to Christine in her pew. She rose from where she had been kneeling and sat beside him. His face was boyish, though he was about as tall as Christine. His close-cropped dark hair was a good contrast to his good-natured, gold-hazel eyes.

“What gave that away?” she asked with a hollow laugh. He smiled compassionately.

“Would you like to talk about it?” 

“I don’t know if I even can,” Christine sighed again. “There are too many secrets involved.”

“As a Catholic, your words to me are still protected by the confidence of the confessional…You are Catholic, aren’t you?” he asked uneasily. 

“Mostly,” Christine answered rather guiltily and he looked a bit pale. She had not been inside a church in two years, and it clearly showed. She did not much care for propriety and sanctity at the moment however. The young priest’s eyes were expectant and not a little bit nervous. “I’ve lost my faith,” Christine told him bluntly, looking down. He took a deep breath and nodded slowly. He had obviously been expecting something less difficult.

“And what reason has God given you to turn away?” he inquired awkwardly, as if he had learned the words by rote and did not fully believe them. Christine blinked at him. 

“It’s not God, really…it’s everything else,” she muttered. She had barely thought of God in all of this, though the fact that sliver of faith remained in her was perhaps encouraging. The priest seemed imminently confused however. “All my life my father told me stories, filed my head with dreams. He promised me he would send me an angel of music when he died, to protect me and teach me.” Christine explained tiredly and the priest nodded. “He died three years ago, along with all my dreams and any hope I had.”

“Your angel did not come?” the young Father guessed sympathetically. 

Christine shook her head. “That’s the awful part: he did.”

The priest’s eyes widened. 

“Or at least I thought he did, until yesterday. I know, it sounds mad, but believe me when I say that three months ago I saw and I heard something I was sure was an angel. When I heard him, it was as if my father was alive again, and everything he had told me hadn’t been a lie. He made me believe. With him protecting me, I felt as if nothing could hurt me. After my father died the life I had was barely a life, but he made the world beautiful again. He filled it with light and hope.” Christine let the words fall like stones. “He was my proof.” 

“Faith does not require proof,” the priest murmured with a half smile. “That is what makes it faith. Believing in something, really believing, goes beyond that. You feel God, just like you feel love. When you feel that, you don’t need proof.” 

Christine looked sadly away from his hopeful face.

“I want to hope again…” she whispered. She had found hope enough to keep her breathing after she had seen her angel’s face, but somehow it had faded after she left him in the dark. The young priest took a determined breath.

“This man, who you thought was an angel; did he do what your father promised?”

Christine looked away from the priest and to the stained glass above the altar, where it glittered like jewels. 

“Yes,” Christine answered resignedly. “He saved me and taught me. He promised me all of Paris and he delivered it.” The sound of applause rang in her ears again, and she remembered the magnificent feeling of singing her soul out to him. 

“Are you the one that sang for Carlotta? I’ve heard great things about you,” the priest asked sheepishly and Christine gave a shy nod, still avoiding his eyes. “They say you sang like an angel and it seems this man helped you do it. So I ask…how do you know your father broke his promise?” 

Christine looked back at the young man in shock. 

“God works in strange ways, Mademoiselle, and great miracles can come in the most unexpected of places.” 

Christine closed her eyes and remembered the man who had been her angel and the breathtaking fear and pity he inspired in her, mingled with an odd, desperate hope. 

“How can I go back to him though, after so many lies?” she asked aloud. “There have been so many other sins, Father,” she added in a whisper, remembering how her wrists and thighs still smarted with the memory of those transgressions. 

“Perhaps if you confessed…” The priest’s words failed at Christine’s grim look.

“I’m not ready for forgiveness yet,” she told him honestly. “And if I go back, I’m afraid I will sin again.” 

The priest blushed a deep crimson and looked away. Christine barely noticed, her mind was filled instead with the memory of how her strange ghost had touched her face on the edge of his world. 

“Who is Persephone?” she asked abruptly, and the priest gaped at her for a moment. “He called me that. I know the name, is it from the Bible?”

“No, um, its Greek, a Greek myth,” the priest stuttered unsurely. “She was the queen of the dead.” Christine felt her face grow a little paler. “Well, she was the daughter of the goddess of the harvest, Demeter, actually, and then Hades, the god of the underworld, kidnapped her.”

“And made her his queen?” Christine finished suspiciously.

“Well, not really,” the priest replied, scratching his head uncomfortably. “Hades took her and Demeter made everything in the world die, out of grief. Finally Zeus intervened, and said he would make Hades return Persephone on the condition that she had not tasted the food of the dead. So Hades told Persephone that she was to return home to her mother, and offered her food and drink as a parting gift, since she had neither eaten nor drank anything her whole time with him. She ate four pomegranate seeds…”

“And when she went back to the world of the living, they wouldn’t have her,” Christine finished for him.

“Almost,” he corrected with a weak smile. “Demeter was so upset that Zeus arranged a compromise. For each seed Persephone ate, she would spend one month in the underworld with Hades, and for the rest of the year, she could return. But when she is gone, Demeter still takes all the life from the world.”

“Winter,” Christine whispered softly and the priest nodded. “And she must always return.” Christine closed her eyes and took a deep breath, not sure if she was angry or relieved at the implication. She stood slowly. “Thank you, Father…”

“René,” he finished for her. She managed half of a smile. 

“You have been of great help, truly,” she told him as she took his hand and squeezed it.

“Will you be alright?” he asked, his face still concerned. Christine took a long breath and shrugged.

“I don’t know,” she answered honestly. He gave a small, tried smile and released her hand with a nod. 

She left the church through a small side door, noting that the bright sunshine was completely gone now and a gentle snow had begun to fall.

~

Erik watched as the bluish twilight continued to fade beyond the shadows where he hid, waiting. She had to come back. He could offer her what no one else could: answers, music, hope. But she had seen his face. She knew how he had betrayed and used her. Why would she want to come back to him or want him at all when no one else ever had? She needed him, didn’t she? The same way he needed her. He wanted her in his lonely life so desperately that he was prepared to take anything she offered, like a beggar or desperate addict. She had said there was hope. Had he done enough to earn her return? 

The light grew dimmer and still he remained alone in the dark at the edge of his underworld. He closed his eyes and took a shaking breath. He didn’t want to see that last light fade along with the last of his hope. 

This was useless. She wasn’t coming…

The clanging of a gate echoed through the dark and for a second he was sure it was a dream. His eyes flew open to see her silhouetted against the last breath of twilight. 

Christine stood at the threshold of the living world, still wearing the long cloak he had given her, the hood pulled over her head. He could not make out the expression on her face as she made her careful way through the dark towards him. 

Erik unfurled himself from the shadows and drew up his lantern. He watched her eyes widen and her breath catch as she saw him, but her steps did not falter and in a moment she stood only a foot from him in the faint circle of light. Her eyes were apprehensive but determined as they stared into his, past the wide brim of his hat and the barrier of his mask, searching. There were still snowflakes caught on the dark material of her hood, and her cheeks were red from the cold. Without looking away from her he triggered the secret door to the cellars then extended his free hand before him. 

“You came back,” he whispered in amazement and trepidation. 

“I had to, didn’t I?” she murmured back, her voice mysterious but not afraid as she took his hand without hesitation. 

He inclined his head questioningly as he savored the feel of her skin. 

“And why is that?” he asked softly. 

She gave a small, sad smile and glanced at their joined hands then back at him.

“I have tasted the food of the dead,” she confessed simply as the light of the lantern flickered around them and the last traces of daylight faded into night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know...a bit of a cliff hanger, huh? Well, good thing that I'll start posting on book two next week. Prepare yourself for Angel of Darkness...


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